


we cannot make our sun stand still (yet we will make him run)

by ScribeofArda



Series: I am a part of all that I have met [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A literal pile of angst and tropes, All The Tropes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Illya Whump, Illya has a building blown up on top of him, M/M, Napoleon comes to some realisations, No period-typical homophobia bc I wrote this in Pride month dammit, Pre-Slash, They're going to get together, but not really, protective napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: Illya snarls again, but he knows, he’s always known, that his life would end like this. He supposes the gun is a mercy.He just wishes he’d been braver.It's been over a year since Rome, since they stopped the world ending (and Napoleon didn't realise how often he'd have to do that now), since Napoleon made a choice and threw a watch across the room instead of pulling a gun. Since then, it's been one mission after another, and Napoleon and Illya have gone from reluctant partners to friends to possibly something more.Napoleon can’t even remember what they talked about. What he remembers is Illya sitting on his couch, a finger or two of vodka in his glass and an amused quirk to his lips. What he remembers is sitting opposite him in his armchair, suit jacket slung over the back and waistcoat unbuttoned. He rarely lets his persona drop, but around Illya he can’t seem to help it.What he remembers is making Illya laugh and thinking: Oh. How did I not see this coming?Now it might all be too late, and he didn't think it would end like this: Illya lying in the street, ash and blood and Napoleon's name on his lips.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First TMFU fic I've ever written, and it is just a self-indulgent trope fest of angst. That's it, 27k of tropes and angsty introspective character study, so hopefully you like that!  
> I'll warn for specific triggers in each chapter, but the general trigger warnings are for descriptions of injuries and medical procedures (though not graphic), blood, death of very minor characters, homophobic slurs (very brief, and from 'bad people' only) and slightly unintentional coming out of one character (I'll explain that one more in the relevant chapter).  
> There is a sequel in the works, if people enjoy this one enough.

He opens his eyes to snowflakes drifting above him on the breeze, bright against the dark sky.

His first memories of snow are of cold hands and red cheeks, a coat that was too big for him dragging on the ground until someone, laughing, picked the trailing hem up and tossed it over his head. He remembers a great booming laugh and hours in the garden, building forts; a softer smile and hot mugs of tea and a scarf pulled too tight around his neck until he complained.

 _Mama_ , he still remembers saying. _Mama, I can’t breathe!_ She had laughed, loosened the scarf off and pushed him back outside into the snow. His fort had collapsed, but he had laughed, and picked the snow up to throw it at his father instead.

He prefers to think about those memories, if he can. The later ones are always worse.

Without meaning to his mind wanders over to them: huddled in the cold, each one of them shivering so violently they could barely keep their weapons pointed straight. Three men lost some of their toes to the cold- what was it the Americans called it? Frostbite. It seemed fitting. He had seen one of the men snap his toe clean off his foot without even noticing until he took off his boot.

He wonders what happened to those men. He knows that Pyotr died, because he saw him fall down, a spray of red across the snow. Friendly fire, they called it, and said it was such a shame. He didn’t realise how young he was back then, if he just believed them. The other men, though, they all survived. As soon as Oleg plucked him from the spetsnaz he never saw them again. He had thought they were his brothers.

He realises, lying there and watching the snow fall in lazy drifts, that he hasn’t seen snow for far too long. Recently it’s been one hot country after another, sun and sand and endless shirtless men. Gaby has loved it, taking every opportunity she can to work on her tan and find cute sundresses, now she has the money and the freedom to wear them.

Solo won’t say anything, but he can tell that he’s not too fond of the heat. Solo has even sacrificed his three-piece suits on some days, still looking effortlessly fashionable in linen shirts and sunglasses, every inch the rich American tourist when he needs to be.

He thinks he prefers Napoleon in the evenings, when the pomade is gone from his hair and it curls, damp, against the nape of his neck. He likes to watch him sway to slow jazz as he fixes himself yet another scotch, a retort on his lips for when Napoleon asks him if he’d like a drink or two. _Not all of us can be alcoholics on the job, Cowboy_ , he’d say. Or if he wanted a conversation, to be drawn away from a half-finished chess game, he’d reply: _the only good alcohol is Russian vodka, Cowboy, and you know it’s true._ By now, he’s learnt to judge Napoleon’s mood by the answer, and work out whether he wants conversation or company or drink.

He breathes in, and in the snow his lips feel cold. One hot country after another. One mission, and then one more, and then yet one more. That’s all his life has been, he supposes.

When the coat trailed in the snow behind him and his face was red from the cold, he remembers that he’d run from his mother when she tried to get him inside. _One more hour, Mama!_ he would cry, hiding behind his father’s legs. _Just one more!_

In the spetsnaz it was the same. One more hour, only it was always one more hour of fighting through the rising snow drifts, one more hour on the ranges, one more hour before they could sleep again. He learnt soon enough, out there with nothing but his rifle and the rucksack on his back and the people trudging behind him across the shapeless white landscape, how to ignore the voice in his head that asked _why_.

The KGB didn’t change much, but the red got closer and the kills quieter. He learnt a new way of killing, one more, and then yet one more: poison and garrotte and his bare hands. His hands would tremble, and his superiors would goad him. _One more act of disobedience, Kuryakin_ , they would say. _One more misstep. Do not forget your father’s fate._

He thinks Napoleon might be different. He thinks Napoleon wouldn’t just ask him for one more. He stares up at the snow and wonders whether he’ll ever be more than a coward, sneaking glances over chess games and drinks, making excuses to stay late at his apartment. _Your armoury is terrible, Cowboy,_ he’d say. _No organisational skills._ And Napoleon would smile, make some comment about his skills lying in a different area of expertise with a wink, and miss how he flushed and wished for more.

The snow is lessening now, and it’s harder for him to focus on the individual flakes. He wants to taste it, catch a snowflake on his tongue like he did as a child. He must have been lying out in the cold longer than he thought, because his body feels sluggish and slow to respond. It takes more effort than it should for him to stick his tongue out to catch a snowflake, and he frowns.

One lands on his tongue. It takes a moment for him to work out what is wrong, but when he does, there’s a high ringing in his ears and the taste of blood on his lips. The snowflake is bitter on his tongue, and tastes like smoke.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, the taste of ash in his mouth, _of course._

He hasn’t seen snow in a long time.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby swirls the drink in her hand and watches as Solo dances.

He’s only swaying to the music he’d put on as he makes dinner, humming softly to the jazz record he’d put on. Gaby smirks as he makes a bit of a show of it, pouring red wine into the pan from high up, expertly twisting the bottle to catch the last few drops.

“That seems like a terrible waste,” she remarks, sipping her own wine. She’s never particularly cared for red wine, but Solo is incorrigible, and tonight he insisted that gin would simply not go with what he was cooking.

“On the contrary, my dear Gaby,” Solo replies with a smile. “You’ll understand once you taste this.” Gaby rolls her eyes, but after a year she is used to Solo’s extravagances when it comes to cooking. She’s become used to a lot of things from her two spies, from Illya’s solitary chess games to Solo’s aprons. The two of them seem to have found an unexpected camaraderie over the months and the constant missions, even though most of it appears as constant bickering and competition between the two of them.

“How long is Illya meant to be?” Solo asks, briefly leaving the pans to simmer on the hob and leaning in the doorway, his own glass of wine in his hand. Gaby looks up from the magazine she’d picked up and was flicking through.

“He should be back soon enough,” she replies. “He was just meant to meet a contact on the other side of town, but he didn’t think it was anything more than yet another check from his handlers.”

Solo snorts in amusement. “As if I could ever seduce Peril to capitalism,” he says with a smirk. “I know his handlers. They’ll question him a bit, but they can’t do anything at all without going through Waverly, and the old man isn’t going to let us go anytime soon.” He takes a sip from his wine, leaning back briefly to check the pans simmering on the hob. “Any plans for tomorrow, Gaby?”

“Shopping,” Gaby replies instantly. “I need new shoes after that mission in Egypt.” She heaves a dramatic sigh, throwing her arm across her face. “It’s just so hard to remain fashionable when you’re trying to chase down international arms smugglers.”

Solo smirks. “Tell me about it,” he says. “Sand is far too difficult to get out of Italian leather. I’m glad that Waverly finally gave us these weeks off in New York, and is keeping the next few missions in the US, apparently. Even if the standard UNCLE apartments leave a little to be desired.” He looks around the apartment with distaste. It was acceptable, nice enough for New York, but he’d much rather prefer somewhere a little more lavish.

“Solo, darling, even the Ritz wouldn’t live up to your expectations,” Gaby drawls. “This is far better than anything I’ve ever lived in. I’m content.”

Solo huffs. “This isn’t even your apartment,” he says, pointing a spoon at her. “Your apartment is much nicer than mine.” Gaby rolls her eyes. “It’s true!” he protests. “But Peril won’t say anything because even his spartan apartment is too capitalist for him. I’m all alone in my misery here.”

Gaby rolls her eyes, and is about to say something when the phone rings, the shrillness cutting through the apartment. Solo wanders over to it, setting his wine glass down and picking up the receiver. “Hello?” he asks. Realisation settles over his face. “Sanders,” he drawls. “Are we making personal calls now?”

Gaby pinpoints the moment something is wrong when Solo’s shoulders tense, and he grips the edge of the table. “Sir,” he says, his voice slightly strained. Sanders obviously cuts him off, and Solo actually gapes. Gaby doesn’t think she’s ever seen him struggle for words. She gets up and crosses to his side, reaching out for his arm. Solo shrugs her off before she even touches him.

“Sir,” he says again. “Yes, Sir. No, I won’t.” He stares at Gaby, eyes going dark. She strains to hear the other side of the conversation, but she can’t make anything out. Solo is gripping the table edge so tightly now his knuckles have turned white.

“Solo?” Gaby murmurs. “Solo, what’s wrong?”

Solo shakes his head. “Yes sir,” he says tonelessly into the phone. “Yes, I’ll clean it up.” He puts the phone down carefully, and just stands there, gripping the table edge.

“Solo?” Gaby asks again. “Napoleon?”

Without any warning Napoleon snatches up his wine glass and pitches it at the wall, where it shatters into shards. Wine drips down the wall, staining the carpet red.

“Solo!” Gaby shouts, jumping back. “What the hell was that?”

“They have him,” Solo spits out between gritted teeth. “Sanders has him.”

“Illya?” Gaby asks. The entire world spins around her, and she follows blindly as Solo runs into his room, all but diving to reach for something under his bed. He pulls out his gun and holster, and she rights herself.

“What do you know?” she asks as she follows him back out of the room. “Is he alive? Unhurt?”

“Sanders said he’s decided to take care of the problem,” Solo bites out. “Seeing as I have failed to do so. He gave me an address to go to, to help clean up.”

Gaby puts her hand over her mouth. “Is he alive?”

“I don’t know, Gaby,” Solo says, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of losing it. “I don’t know.” He grabs something from a draw in the living room, and then heads for the door. “Call Waverly,” he says, and then rattles off an address so quickly Gaby almost misses it. She grabs a pad of paper to write it down, and when she turns back around, the door is swinging and Solo is gone.

She runs after him and catches him going upstairs, rather than down. “What are you doing?” she asks, chasing him up the stairs. “You need to get Illya!”

“I need weapons,” Solo snaps at her. “If the CIA did this, there will be other agents there. If Illya is still alive, they’ll finish him, unless I stop them first. I need Illya’s sniper rifle.” Gaby realises he’s heading for Illya’s apartment on the floor above. He all but sprints down the corridor and skids to a halt in front of Illya’s door.

“Are you going to pick the lock?” Gaby asks as she catches up. “That’s going to take far too long with Illya’s defences. I’ll call Waverly and get him to drop off a sniper-”

She trails off as Solo just produces a key and lets himself into the apartment. The layout is the same as his, the same as every apartment in this building, but even so, Solo doesn’t even hesitate before heading straight into the bedroom. Gaby follows him to find him flinging open the closet doors and haphazardly shoving clothes out of the way.

“What are you doing?” she asks, pad of paper forgotten in her hand. She pauses. “These apartments don’t have armouries,” she says slowly. “What are you looking for?”

“You know Peril,” Solo says over his shoulder, apparently distracted by the back of Illya’s closet. “Of course he has an armoury. Now be quiet, and let me concentrate. This is difficult to open.”

Gaby watches as Solo presses down on a particular place on the closet wall that looks no different from the rest of the wall. Something clicks, and without moving his hand Solo reaches up with the other, standing on tiptoes and running his fingers along the seam of the wall and ceiling. Apparently he finds what he is looking for, because he pauses, and presses something down. He takes away his lower hand and reaches over to the side of the closet, presses something down and slides a small panel that Gaby would never have seen, until it reaches the ceiling and something clicks again.

Gaby has watched Solo work at Chinese puzzle boxes many times now, fingers working over the wood until it clicks open. She’s even bought him new ones when he’s figured out the old, just to see him sink onto a sofa and sit there for hours, working away at it, and the triumphant smile when he figures it out. She knows Illya hates them, because Solo loves to hide his watch in the boxes and not get it out for him for hours. Surprisingly, Illya has never smashed one of them yet.

This wall, though Gaby supposes it is a door really, looks like the same thing. Solo stares intently at it as his fingers move in a pattern Gaby cannot follow.

She thinks it takes about three minutes before Solo steps back, fits his fingers into a gap that wasn’t there before, and pulls. The back of the closet swings open to reveal racks of weapons, boxes of ammunition stacked at the bottom. Gaby steps forwards despite herself. She knows that out of all of them, Illya is always the first to reach for a gun, but she hadn’t realised quite how many guns he had with him, rifles and pistols and even a lightweight machine gun sitting on a rack.

Solo reaches for the sniper rifle first, pulling it off the wall and snatching up a box of rounds. “Get Waverly on the phone,” he snaps at her. “Get agents and medics to that address. If there’s any chance Illya is alive, I have to get to him.”

Gaby nods, and rushes to the phone as Solo grabs a duffel bag and begins to fill it up with various weapons, rounds and the first aid kit that Illya keeps under his bed. Waverly answers on the second ring and Gaby rattles off the address, telling him all that she knows and telling him to get people there as soon as he can. All too soon Waverly hangs up and Solo appears in the doorway, duffel bag over his shoulder. His eyes look wild, expression raw in a way Gaby hasn’t seen before.

“Get in the car,” Gaby says, the keys luckily in her pocket. “I’m driving.”

“Gaby-” Solo says, but she cuts him off. It’s taken her a little while, but she’s starting to fall into the mindset of a spy that she’s been learning over the year she’s been doing this. Illya and Solo are surprisingly good teachers, when they put their minds to it, and she’s learnt most of the skills she has now from them, and from her own wit.

“I’m driving,” she said firmly, heading out of Illya’s apartment. “I’m a much better driver than you are, and you need to check your weapons.” Solo follows her out the room, and they run down the stairs together, Solo not even wincing as the heavy duffel bag hits his back with every stride. His eyes have done dark, his face smooth and impassive. Gaby knows it’s a front, and compared to his others, it’s not very good. She can see the muscle ticking in his clenches jaw, the white of his knuckles around the strap of the duffel.

She gets the car from the garage and screeches out onto the street, where Solo flings himself into the back seat. “Head downtown,” he says tersely as he reaches for the duffel. “Stay on the main road until you’re past the turning for Brooklyn.”

Gaby nods, and puts her foot down. It’s late, but this is New York and the traffic is eternal. She weaves in and out of the cars, Solo saying nothing as he’s thrown against the side of the car.

It’s been almost a minute before Gaby glances at Solo in the rear mirror. “Do you think this was sanctioned by the CIA?” she asks, her voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Solo says, eyes not meeting hers in the mirror. “Sanders has enough pull to get some people to do this off the books. There are plenty of agents in the CIA who would be happy to get rid of a fucking pinko, as Sanders likes to call them. Some are probably convinced Peril is part of the Illegals Program or some shit like that. But the CIA would turn a blind eye to all this anyway.”

“Why now, though?” Gaby asks, putting her foot down to get round another taxi. “Illya’s been with UNCLE for over a year now.” She forces her voice to remain firm. “If they’d wanted to kill him, they could have done it well before now.”

“This is the first time we’ll be in New York for more than a week at a time,” Solo says, checking the scope on the sniper rifle. “And it looks like we’re going to be in the US for a while longer. Sanders wouldn’t have been much worried about Illya until he was going to be on American soil for a while.” He swears under his breath. “Fucking Sanders and the fucking CIA.”

“Waverly will get them,” Gaby says, and she makes her voice sound confident even though fear is pooling in her gut. “This can’t be allowed to happen.”

Solo snorts. “As if Sanders is lapse enough to not cover his tracks,” he mutters. “Waverly won’t get shit from the CIA.” He screws a silencer onto a pistol, the weight reassuring in his hand. “Waverly isn’t God. He can’t save us all.”

Gaby doesn’t know what to say to that, the words Solo spits from his lips so different to what she usually hears, so she falls silent. Solo glances out the window. “Take the next left, and then the second right,” he says. “Keep going until the intersection.”

There’s silence for a few more seconds. Gaby stops herself from glancing at Solo again, and puts her foot down an inch more. Eventually, though, a question that has been gnawing at her rears its head, and she looks up at the rear mirror.

“How did you know how to get into Illya’s armoury?” she asks.

Solo huffs a bitter laugh. “I helped build it, of course,” he replies. “Do you think Peril could make something that complicated?” They’d spent two days putting it together, during some of their rare downtime in New York, and that was only after he spent hours designing it. The same type of design is on the drawer under his bed that holds a much more modest armoury.

Gaby sees the look on his face, a strange mix of longing and grief and fear that has no place on Solo’s face, not the suave American thief-turned-spy she knows. A few things slowly fall into place as she drives, and she has to focus on the road for a moment.

“Solo,” she says slowly, eyes on the road. “What is Illya to you?”

Solo chokes on a breath, eyes wild before he pushes it all down and slams the front back into place. “Not now, Gaby,” he says, and he sounds almost like he’s pleading. Gaby arches a brow, and Solo shakes his head. “You know I can’t think like that now. Not until I know there’s no more danger, that the fucking CIA haven’t killed him.” He looks away from Gaby’s gaze, rifling through the duffel bag and pulling out another magazine for the rifle.

“We’ll get him,” Gaby says softly. “You’ll get to him in time.” Solo’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

He directs Gaby through the maze that is New York. “I’ll direct you to the street behind the address,” he tells her as she screeches down the streets. The area is becoming more dilapidated, old warehouses and run-down buildings down the streets they’re passing.

“Take the left after this one,” Solo says. “The address is down that street before the turn.” He leans towards the window to look carefully down the street, and then jolts back.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, and Gaby slams on the brakes before she remembers there may well be CIA agents around, and she shouldn’t draw attention to themselves. She tries to keep driving normally, going as far as to indicate as she turns onto the next street.

“What is it?” she asks, twisting in her seat. “What did you see?”

Solo looks at her, his expression hollow. “The building,” he says. “It’s gone.” He takes a breath, and the spy comes back to the front. “Looks demolished, but I’d say someone blew it up. Let me out here. I’ll get close and take out any CIA agents that might be there.”

“Leave them alive,” Gaby says as Solo gets out of the car and grabs the duffel. “We need to know if this was CIA-sanctioned or not. Waverly will want to know.”

“I can’t promise that,” Solo says, slinging the sniper rifle over his shoulder.

“Solo,” Gaby says sternly. “You’re an agent first.”

Solo shakes his head. “Don’t ask that of me,” he says as he disappears into the shadows. “Not tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illegals Program: a program during the Cold War where Soviet spies integrated into the US lifestyle and culture, getting jobs, raising families, and feeding information back to the Soviet Union the entire time.
> 
> I'm sure there's some plot in there somewhere, but I think it's buried under the pile of tropes, so you might have to dig a little for it.  
> Also, I'm used to writing fic in a fantasy setting, where if you don't know how something in that world works, you can just wave your hands and mumble about magic/worldbuilding. This is set in real life, and I have some really weird search history because of it, especially as I'm British, so a lot of American slang escapes me. If I mess something up, let me know!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ball of angst and tropes, so I'm sure someone will enjoy it.  
> tw: brief homophobic slurs, death of minor idiot goons, everything that comes with nearly dying in someone's arms (or close enough).

He thinks he remembers what happened, but his mind is hazy and filled with fog. It’s so easy to get lost in fog. One misstep and the person walking in front of you disappears.

_No,_ he thinks, pushing his mind back to the present. He can’t get distracted.

He remembers driving through the city at night, the bright lights of New York slowly dimming as he got further away from the centre of the city. He remembers parking a street away and scouting the area, the KGB training sitting deep in his bones.

Somehow, he thinks he must have suspected something was wrong. He’s turned his head just enough to see the rubble around him, and he knows he wouldn’t have survived that if he’d just walked in the front door.

He doesn’t know who did this, but it doesn’t much matter. He can’t move; every time he tries his breath is stolen by the pain, and he’s barely managed a few inches across the tarmac where he lies. Distantly, the thought occurs that his spine might be broken.

Fear crawls across his chest at the thought, and he tries to fight it back down. He tries to move his legs, even just his toes, and he can feel his breath stutter when he can’t. It hurts, but he can’t stop himself from sucking in a breath, and then another, far too quickly. Everything is disintegrating right in front of him. There’s a keening sound, like a wounded animal, and he realises it’s him. His fingers scrabble in the dust and rubble around him, but that’s all he can do. He can’t move.

There’s the crunch of rubble under feet from somewhere and he tries to look around, head falling to one side. _Napoleon_ , his first thought is, followed by: _they’ve come to finish the job_. He licks his lips, the taste of ash and blood bitter on his tongue, and a pair of boots steps into view.

“Fucking hell, he’s still alive.”

Illya turns his head to stare up at the man above him and grins with bloodstained teeth. There’s a small curl of satisfaction in him when the man flinches, and backs away.

“That’s fucking creepy,” he says over his shoulder to someone else. It takes him a moment to realise the man is speaking English. _American,_ he thinks, and then: _CIA_. He isn’t surprised. This was going to happen sooner or later.

Regret flickers through him as he thinks of Napoleon. He knows he’ll feel guilty that the CIA did this, even though it isn’t his fault. But Gaby will talk sense into him. The two of them, they’ll be all right. He only wishes he’d been braver.

The CIA agent bends over him. “I don’t know how much of this you understand, you fucking Russki,” he says, a grin on his face. “But you have no idea how much satisfaction this is going to give me.” He straightens, and without warning aims a kick at Illya’s side. Pain explodes across his chest, and he bites back a scream.

“Stop playing,” another person says, sounding bored. “People are going to find this sooner or later. Napoleon fucking Solo is probably on his way. Sanders called him to make him come help clean up all this mess. Wonder what he’ll do when he sees his precious Russki here.”

The first agent laughs in Illya’s face. “Think he’ll cry, Russki?” he asks him. “Think he’ll be upset you’re gone? A fucking faggot like him, maybe we should off him as well. It would make a pretty picture, a hole in his head.”

He snarls up at the agent, a familiar anger flaring deep within his chest. “Touch him, and I end you,” he rasps.

The agent laughs. “No, that’s not going to happen.” He pulls out a pistol, a silencer attached. “See, I’m going to finish you off, and when the great Napoleon Solo gets here he’s going to find his Russki lover dead on the street with a bullet in that crazy brain of yours. And then while he’s crying over you, we’ll finish him too. We’ll be doing the world a fucking favour.”

Illya snarls again, but he knows, he’s always known, that his life would end like this. He supposes the gun is a mercy.

He just wishes he’d been braver.

The agent points the pistol at his head, and Illya smiles with bloody teeth. If nothing else, he can give the agent nightmares.

There’s a crack, and then another. He watches as the pistol slips from the agent’s grip. There’s a muffled thump, and then the agent standing over him sways, face going slack as he topples forwards over him. At the sudden weight pain explodes through his chest, and this time he does scream. His voice cracks as the darkness rushes in, and then there’s nothing more.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon drops the sniper rifle, launching himself from the roof of the garage that he’d climbed onto and down to the street. “Illya,” he calls out as he sprints across to the prone figure, half buried beneath rubble. “Illya, no, no please God no.”

He hauls the dead CIA agent off of Illya’s chest and dumps him to the side. Illya’s eyes are closed, his face slack. He’s grey, covered in dust, and there’s a trickle of blood down the side of his face from the corner of his lips.

Napoleon falls to his knees beside him. “Illya,” he pleads. He presses his fingers beneath Illya’s jaw, and there’s a slow, steady beat there. Napoleon feels a wave of relief wash over him. He gently rubs his knuckles against Illya’s chest, and feels sick when he can feel ribs shifting beneath his hand. “Illya, open your eyes. Please Illya, it’s me, it’s Solo.” Illya is unresponsive, and Solo feels a great yawning abyss of fear cracking open in his chest.

“Goddammit, Illya!” he shouts.

Illya’s face scrunches, and then his eyes flicker open. They’re hazy and dulled with pain, but they focus on Solo. Napoleon thinks they’re the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

“Cowboy,” Illya rasps. “Napoleon.” He licks his lips, hand scrabbling in the dust and rubble and gripping Napoleon’s leg. “Napoleon,” he says again.

Napoleon smiles slightly. “That’s my name, Peril,” he says. “Don’t overuse it.” He brushes some of the dust off Illya’s face, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Waverly is on his way with medics. You’re going to be fine.”

“Napoleon,” Illya mumbles. “I can’t…can’t move. Can’t move my legs.” He doesn’t seem to realise he’s speaking in Russian. His breathing quickens, and he keens like a wounded animal.

“Hey, Illya, it’s okay,” Napoleon says, clasping his hand tightly. He gently grasps Illya’s chin and tilts his face towards him until Illya looks at him. “Your legs are trapped under rubble,” he says, switching to Russian. “I don’t know how long you’ve been trapped, so I can’t move it off you or you could die. I’ve got to wait for the medics to get here. They’ll be here soon, okay? I’ll stay with you until they arrive.”

“Napoleon,” Illya mumbles again, and something in Napoleon’s chest feels like it’s breaking.

“I’m here, Illya,” is all that he can say. He’s trying to sound calm, but it doesn’t seem like it’s working. Illya looks more panicked by the second. “You’re not going to die,” Napoleon says firmly. “I won’t let that happen.”

Illya chokes on a laugh. “You can’t stop it,” he murmurs. “Stubborn Americans. Think they can change the world.”

“I’ll take all the insults you can throw at me if you stay awake,” Napoleon bargains. “I’ll even admit I’m a selfish capitalist and my apartment is far too baroque. Is that enough to keep you here, Peril? You finally got the great Napoleon Solo to admit fault. You can’t go now.”

Illya smiles, and it’s heartbreaking. Napoleon glances up the street, but the road is silent and there’s no sign yet of Waverly bringing the cavalry. He strips off his jacket and lays it over Illya, trying to keep him warm. He’s still wearing a waistcoat, and he takes that off as well, sliding it as gently as he can under Illya’s head.

Illya looks up at him. “Cowboy,” he mumbles. “Your suit.”

Napoleon laughs and chokes on the sound, eyes wet. “Fuck the suit,” he replies. “Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

Illya wants to say: _who are you, and what have you done with Napoleon Solo?_ But he doesn’t have the energy, and each breath is getting more and more difficult. “Napoleon,” he rasps, and Napoleon takes his hand again, holding it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to get out, and he hates the way that Napoleon’s face crumples upon the words. “I wish we had more time.”

“No, don’t talk like that,” Napoleon says, his voice breaking. His eyes look wet, and as Illya watches a tear escapes. He frees his hands from Napoleon’s and reaches up, wiping it away. He can’t bear to take his hand from Napoleon’s cheek.

Napoleon holds back a sob, and grabs his hand. “I wish I’d been braver,” Illya murmurs. He coughs, and flecks of blood colour his lips. “I’m sorry,” he repeats helplessly.

“So am I,” Napoleon says. “I should never have let this happen. I should have been braver. I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

Illya wants to say: _you Americans all think you control the world. In Russia we learn it’s the other way round,_ but the words won’t leave his lips. He just focuses on drawing in another breath, and then another. _One more_ , he thinks, _and then one more._ That’s all his life has ever been.

He knows what death looks like. He knows what is coming, what has been coming ever since his father was pulled from their house in the middle of the night. It was all borrowed time, and he hadn’t cared until an American thief threw him his watch instead of pointing a gun.

“Watch,” he murmurs. “My watch. Want you to have it.” Napoleon chokes on a sob, and Illya tries to convey everything he never had the courage to tell him in a look. “Take it,” he murmurs. “It’s yours.”

“No, no you don’t need to give it up,” Napoleon pleads. “You’re not going to die.”

“We’re spies,” Illya gets out. “It’s what we do.” He stares up at Napoleon, trying to remember every detail of his face. “I’m sorry,” he says again, as he feels the darkness creeping in. “Napoleon.”

“Illya,” Napoleon chokes out. “Illya, no, goddammit no! Stay with me, please just stay with me.”

Illya wants to say: _forever_.

He wants to say: _for all the days that you will have me, I am yours._

He wants to say: _yes._

He says none of these. The last thing he hears is Napoleon choking on his name, and then it all falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If someone is trapped under a heavy object for more than about 15 minutes (according to the NHS website) don't move the object off them! It can actually be fatal, due to the sudden release of toxins from the atrophying muscle. I figure Napoleon would know this, having seen a lot of places shelled during the war.
> 
> I sent this chapter to a friend of mine to read, and the response I got back was a mostly incoherent message, all in capitals, so I think I broke her with this. So many tropes....


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't mean to leave this as an intentional cliffhanger for this long, but Real Life got in the way. This chapter is slightly shorter because otherwise it would be miles too long. I am not a doctor or a paramedic, so any medical stuff is as accurate as Wikipedia could help me to make it.
> 
> Aiming to have the next chapter up in a few days after this, and then you'll find out what has actually happened to Illya.

The first thing Gaby sees, sprinting down the street towards the rubble strewn across the road, agents and medics behind her, is Solo’s back. He’s knelt down in the middle of the road, hunched over. It isn’t until she gets closer that she sees Illya, prone in front of him.

Solo spins around upon hearing the footsteps. “Medics,” he calls out, his voice hoarse. “Medics, he needs medics.” Gaby notices that he still has hold of Illya’s hand.

It takes her a moment to see the two other people slumped over on the rubble, and by the time she does, other agents are already heading to them. “Dead,” one of them calls out to the agent in charge, an older British man. Gaby has been Waverly’s for a long time, but was a sleeper agent and little more until Rome. There are many more experienced agents at UNCLE than her.

She heads over to Solo instead, crouching down beside him and gently gripping his shoulder. It’s unnerving to see Illya so still, and he looks small under the rubble. The medics are already working on him, an IV in the back of one hand. “Agent Solo,” one of them says, and he has to repeat himself multiple times until Solo jolts, and looks up.

“We need space to work,” the medic said. “Step away please, agent.”

Solo just shakes his head. Gaby tugs at his shoulder, trying to pull him away, but Solo shrugs her off. “I’m not leaving until he is,” he says. His voice is soft, but Gaby recognises the underlying steel in his tone. She glances at the medics and shakes her head.

The medic sighs. “Fucking spies and their fucking co-dependencies,” she mutters to herself, though Gaby overhears her and shoots her a glare. “Fine. Agent Solo, I need you to stabilise Agent Kuryakin’s head and neck. Move to his head, keep one hand on either side of his head with gentle pressure, and keep it still and straight whilst we move this rubble off him.”

Napoleon nods, and lets go of Illya’s hand to shift around to his head. “He was turning his head earlier,” he says to the medics as they work. “Awake and talking. He could move his arms.”

The other medic nods, and cuts away Illya’s jacket and shirt. There’s a steady litany of medical terms and other jargon between the two medics as they work, most of it going straight over Napoleon’s head. He keeps his hands on either side of Illya’s face, keeps his neck straight and still, and a traitorous part of him thinks that if only he’d been braver, then this wouldn’t be the first time he’d even touched Illya’s face.

He stares at Illya’s face, the closed eyes and slack jaw, hair almost grey there’s so much dust in it. There’s blood on his lips, another trickle down the side of his face, and Napoleon wants to wipe it away, wants to pick up a brick and throw it at Sander’s head, wants to scream until Illya opens his damn eyes and he can tell him how sorry he is.

He does none of those, because none of them would help. Instead he swallows his screams, forces himself to be the damn spy he is meant to be, and he keeps his hands steady as he holds Illya’s head still.

With the help of some agents who give Napoleon pitying looks as he kneels there, the medics finally remove the rubble from Illya. Even Napoleon, with no medical knowledge besides the battlefield first aid he’s learnt over the years, can see that his left leg is broken. He is just thankful, for a brief moment, that the bone didn’t break through the skin. Illya could have bled out under the rubble and he wouldn’t have known a damn thing.

One of the medics has his stethoscope out, listening to Illya’s chest, and there’s a frown on his face. “We need to intubate,” he says to the other medic who is splinting Illya’s leg. “I don’t like his breath sounds.”

Napoleon is pushed away from Illya’s head and he sprawls back on the ground, watching as the medics insert a tube down Illya’s throat and attach a bag. “I can do that,” he says, scrambling back onto his knees as the medic squeezes the bag and Illya’s chest expands. “I’ve been trained in that. Firm squeeze every three seconds, right? I can do it, and you can focus on something else.”

The medic studies him, and then sighs and nods. He hands over the bag, and for a few minutes Napoleon does nothing but focus on squeezing the bag every three seconds, watching as Illya’s chest rises and falls. There’s bruises blooming on his chest, over his ribs, and Napoleon distinctly remembers the feeling of broken ribs beneath his hands.

A hand falls on his shoulder and Napoleon looks up to see Gaby standing over him, her mascara slightly smudged. “They’re going to get him back to headquarters,” she says to him. “Medical is waiting for him. He’ll be in good hands.”

Napoleon feels numb. He nods, and one of the medics gently pushes him away and takes the breathing apparatus from him. It feels like before he can even blink, Illya is on a stretcher and they’re taking him away. He struggles to his feet, stumbling after the medics. Gaby grabs his arm and pulls him back, but he simply shrugs her off.

“Solo!” she calls out, and runs in front of him, planting herself in his way. He stops, a small part of him endeared by the way she stands firm in front of him, one hand on his chest, even as tears run down her cheeks.

“You’ve done all you can,” she says, her voice softening. “You stopped the other agents killing him, you were here for him, but you have to let the medical professionals take over now. They know what they’re doing.”

Napoleon stares at her. “Please,” Gaby says, her voice cracking slightly. “You’ve done your best, but there’s nothing more you can do to help him. Go back to headquarters, and wait for the doctors to work.”

Napoleon stares at her for another long moment. He sighs, and then gathers her in his arms. “I’m sorry, Gaby,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on the top of her head. She wraps his arms around him, burying her face in his dusty shirt.

Napoleon watches over her head as the UNCLE ambulance drives away, lights flashing and siren wailing. He watches until it disappears out of sight, and then slowly lets Gaby go. A weariness is falling over him, making him stumble over rubble as Gaby leads him towards the cars at the end of the street. He pulls up short when he sees a familiar figure.

Waverly gets out of a car and strides towards them, hands in his pockets. “Sir,” Napoleon says, feeling suddenly thrown off-kilter.

“Solo,” Waverly says with a nod. “If you’d get in the car, please. We have things to discuss.”

“Will we be going to headquarters?” Napoleon asks as Gaby shepherds him towards the waiting car. Waverly actually smiles slightly, and Napoleon thinks hysterically that for a Brit, that’s the most emotion he can show for an entire week.

“I rather think if we weren’t, then you wouldn’t get in,” Waverly says. Napoleon nods, and slides into the car. Gaby ducks her head in.

“I’m staying here and assisting with clean up, and to try and find out a little more about the explosion and the agents here,” she says to him. “I’ll be back at headquarters within the hour.” She smiles softly, and kisses Napoleon’s cheek. “Take care of yourself as well,” she murmurs, and then steps back.

Waverly gets in the car and shuts the door, and the driver pulls smoothly away. There is uncomfortable silence for a minute, before Waverly clears his throat.

“Rest assured, Solo, that this incident is being treated very seriously,” he tells him. “I will not overlook whatever role the CIA had in trying to kill Agent Kuryakin, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that he is looked after in whatever way is needed.”

Napoleon nods. “Yes Sir,” he murmurs, his voice flat. He is trying to hold everything together, but the edges are fraying and he knows, he knows just like he knows Illya’s favourite vodka brand or preferred pistol, that he can’t hold it together for much longer.

“You are on leave for the foreseeable future,” Waverly continues. Napoleon raises a brow at that, and Waverly studies his face. “I highly doubt you have not been compromised by this,” he tells him. “And until we are more certain of the future, I will not make any further decision on this. You are, of course, welcome to return to your apartment, your penthouse, or stay at headquarters. I do object to you sleeping in Medical, but that argument can wait until later.”

“Until we know if Illya is even alive, you mean?” Napoleon asks scathingly. “Also, you know about my penthouse?”

Waverly levels him with an unimpressed look. “Of course I know about your penthouse,” he says. “There is no rule forbidding UNCLE agents from having a separate location in New York. And your presence being allowed in headquarters is conditional on you not making a scene or being difficult for anyone, is that understood?”

Napoleon feels tired, and hazy, and he just nods. “Yes Sir,” he replies again.

Waverly nods. “We’ll debrief once we arrive back at headquarters,” he says. “There won’t be word on Agent Kuryakin’s condition for some hours, I suspect, but you may wait in your office or in Medical once we’ve debriefed. I’ll send someone to your apartment to pick up fresh clothes and some essentials for you, and to secure your apartment and Kuryakin’s.”

Napoleon nods again. “I left the pans on the hob,” he murmurs, and he’s not quite sure why he says that. He runs a hand over his face, and it comes away covered in grey dust.

“Solo,” Waverly says, and it’s worse when his voice is pitched soft like that, like he pities him. Napoleon glances over at him, but can’t stomach Waverly’s expression.

“It is natural that, given your personal relationship with Kuryakin, this will be difficult for you,” Waverly says. “More so with the apparent involvement of your former employers. But you must understand that I am not the CIA. Kuryakin will have the best treatment and care available to him, regardless of his nationality.”

Solo stares out the window. “We’re just friends,” he says, but the words sound hollow even to his own ears.

Waverly manages to convey a shrug without actually shrugging, and Napoleon wonders if it’s a British thing or a spy thing that enables him to do that. “Regardless,” he says. “UNCLE is a progressive organisation, and I’m more than willing to turn a blind eye to certain things if it doesn’t affect, or even enhances, the effectiveness of my operatives.”

Napoleon arches a brow, but doesn’t say anything. Waverly doesn’t feel the need to add anything more, and they fall silent for the rest of the drive back to headquarters.

As soon as they step into the building, Napoleon feels an unfamiliar fear grip his chest. Somewhere in this building, Illya is lying on a stretcher, or a bed. Somewhere there are doctors trying to save his life. Somewhere in this building, he might be dying.

The thought makes him almost choke on a breath, and Waverly glances at him in concern. Napoleon shakes his head, pushes it all back down, and follows him to his office.

Waverly ushers him in, and points him at a seat. “I’d offer you a drink,” he says. “But I think you just want to get this over with. Recount what happened, please.”

Napoleon nods, and spells out what happened, from the moment he got the phone call. Throughout it all Waverly just listens, occasionally jotting something down on a pad of paper. “Did Sanders mention this being officially sanctioned?” he asked once Napoleon trails off.

“He didn’t,” Napoleon replies. “But I got the sense that it wasn’t. Either way, there are plenty in the agency who would jump at the chance to do this, and the CIA wouldn’t care if Illya died.”

“Maybe not, but I do,” Waverly says sternly. “I’ll say it again, Solo: I am treating this with the utmost seriousness. This was a deliberate attack against one of my agents, and I won’t simply accept this. Trust in me to deliver the consequences of these actions.” He straightened some papers on his desk. “Now, I believe that is all I need from you for now. Head down to Medical, and an agent will meet you in the waiting room with fresh clothes and more from your apartment.”

Napoleon gets up, his chair scraping against the floor with a shriek. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, and he finds himself meaning it. Waverly just nods, and waves him away.

Waverly watches as Solo leaves his office and begins to run even before the door has shut behind him. He sighs. Solo and Kuryakin are two of his best agents, and he has watched their partnership grow over the past year with great interest. They are new to UNCLE, and still finding their feet a little, but he has great hopes for them.

Despite having been in the game for decades now, he still feels a pang of grief as he thinks of Solo’s expression.

He sighs again, and reaches for the intercom button. “Get me the Director of Central Intelligence,” he tells his secretary, and then picks up the phone.

“John,” he says when it connects. “It’s Alexander Waverly. Would you care to offer any explanation as to why some of your people have attempted to kill one of my agents tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Various medical staff being annoyed at how codependent spies are and how difficult it makes their job is a running thing in this fic- I didn't intend it to be, but that could probably sum up half of my writing process (read: sequel halfway finished that I'd never planned, list of four other TMFU works to be written, including Tour de France AU that absolutely nobody has asked for).
> 
> This fic is set sometime in 1964 (I think it's spring, but honestly idk, it changes depending on my mood when I'm writing). At the time, Kennedy had been assassinated the year before, and the current director of the CIA was John McCone, who had been appointed after the previous DCI was forced to resign following the Bay of Pigs disaster.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for descriptions of injuries- it's all pretty medical and not described in detail, but it's there.
> 
> 'Had we but world enough, and time' is the first line of the poem To His Coy Mistress. The title of this work also comes from the same poem.

The chairs in Medical are hard plastic, and Napoleon finds himself wondering if it’s a condition for any hospital waiting room to have uncomfortable chairs. He slumps down in one of them, and tries to wipe some of the dust from his suit trousers. The trousers are completely ruined, but he doesn’t find himself caring at the moment.

A door swings open and a mixture of hope and fear briefly kindles in Napoleon’s chest, before he realises that it’s the door to the corridor, and not the rest of Medical. An agent that he doesn’t recognise steps through, and walks over to him.

“Agent Solo?” he asks, sitting down in the chair next to Napoleon. “I’m Agent Andrysiak. Waverly sent me to be a liaison for this whole mess.”

Solo snorts. “That’s one way of putting it,” he mutters. He glances at the agent. “Andrysiak, that’s Eastern European?”

“Polish,” Andrysiak says with a nod.

Napoleon arches a brow. “How long have you been working here, then?”

Andrysiak smiles slightly. “I’ve been here for four years,” he replies. “Waverly picked me up and I worked in the London office for a while before being transferred here. With my background, I’m usually a field agent, but can work as a liaison when needed.”

“Ah,” Napoleon says. “You were one of the _SB-ecks_? I knew a couple when in Europe.”

“Technically, I still am,” Andrysiak says with a crooked smile. “Never defected from the USSR. Kuryakin is the first Russian to be loaned to UNCLE, but the Polish Security Bureau is a little less…committed to Soviet ideals, in some ways, and were more eager for international cooperation.”

Napoleon sighs slightly. “I suppose that’s the Russians for you,” he murmurs. “Too fucking stubborn to quit.”

Andrysiak nods. “I have pictures of the two agents you shot,” he says, changing the subject. “I’d like you to take a look and try to identify them.” Napoleon nods, and he hands over two pictures.

Napoleon looks at the first one, and sighs. “Matthew Henderson,” he says, handing the photo back. “One of Sander’s lackeys. Arrogant bastard and an average agent, but has the wealth and family name to get into various places so Sanders keeps him around. Would jump at the chance to kill a Russian.”

“And the other?” Andrysiak asks, nodding at the other photo.

Napoleon studies it, and shakes his head. “Recognise the face, but don’t know his name,” he says. “Definitely CIA though.”

Andrysiak nods. “I have a direct line to Waverly and the team working on this,” he tells him. “So I’ll let them know this, and they will keep me updated with any relevant information you need to know. If you need anything, let me know.” He takes out a small communicator device and briefly relays the information over the line, clicking it off once conformation is received. He pulls a stack of case files from his briefcase. “Feel free to help me on some of these if you want something to pass the time with,” he tells Napoleon.

Napoleon just shakes his head, and leans back in the chair. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, waiting for news. After a while Gaby shows up, and for a moment Napoleon hates her for how composed she looks with a change of clothes and re-applied makeup. She hands him a bag. “New clothes and things from your apartment,” she says. “Is there any news?”

“Nothing,” Napoleon replies. “What do you know?”

Gaby sighs, and settles down in the chair next to him. “It was definitely an explosion,” she says. “Staged to look like the building was demolished, but we found an ignition device and traces of accelerant. Waverly is contacting Oleg to find out whether it was a real KGB safehouse.”

“He’s already talked to Director McCone at the CIA,” Andrysiak says, flipping through a case file. “The CIA has denied any official involvement, but of course they would. There’s no telling if Sanders acted independently yet.”

“Don’t put it past him,” Napoleon murmurs, and there must be something in his voice because Gaby reaches over and grabs his hand.

“He’s going to be okay,” she murmurs, as Andrysiak wisely turns away and pretends to not listen. “He didn’t look too badly injured, did he? There wasn’t much…blood, or anything.”

Napoleon turns to her, and looks at her with tired eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything, Gaby,” he says softly. “Crush injuries can be fatal. I saw it in the war, people trapped under rubble after a bombing. They’d be awake and talking, even laughing, and then we’d remove the rubble and in a few minutes they’d be dead. Medics eventually learnt that if they’d been trapped for more than an hour, there wasn’t much chance of them surviving. Not in the middle of a fucking war, at least.”

Gaby makes a small noise, and squeezes his hand tightly. Andrysiak glances up. “You served?” he asks. “Where?”

“Western front, mostly,” Napoleon replies, well aware that the other agent is trying to distract him. “Up until the end of the war, and then was part of the occupying force in Germany afterwards. Why, did you?”

“Eastern front,” Andrysiak says. “I got the hell out of Poland when Hitler invaded, and joined a Soviet regiment. Served with them for most of the war, but got shot just before we got into Warsaw, and spent the end of the war in hospital.”

Napoleon shrugs. “It’s a better way to end the war than for many others,” he murmurs, and Andrysiak hums in agreement.

Gaby nudges him, and pushes the bag of clothes towards him. “You’re covered in dust,” she says. “Go and have a shower, and get changed. You’ll feel better afterwards.” She levels him with a look, daring him to argue. Napoleon sighs, and then grabs the bag.

In the showers he strips off the remains of his suit, suddenly realising what he must have looked like. The suit trousers are more grey than black, covered in dust and slightly torn at the knees. There are blood spatters on a shirtsleeve, and distantly he thinks it must be from when Illya was coughing up blood. He turns the shirtsleeve over, running a finger over the stains.

He wonders what could have happened if he’d only been braver. All that time he’s spent with Illya over the past year, ever since Rome, and he’s never worked up the courage to do anything.

He knows what he is. After the mission in Turkey, where the only way to gain access to the safe that contained the documents he needed was to seduce the distinctly male and definitely homosexual arms dealer, Illya knows as well. Surprisingly, Peril hadn’t reacted too badly. Napoleon had expected a punch at the least, but Illya had shrugged, said it hadn’t surprised him much that he was an equal opportunity man, as he put it, and continued decoding the missive.

Napoleon sighs, stepping under the shower. He had accepted a long time ago how dangerous this life was, but before now he hasn’t had much to lose. He’s certainly never loved someone enough that their loss would be more than he can bear.

He remembers when he first realised as he watches the water run grey with dust down the drain. It had been during some rare downtime in New York, and Illya had spent the afternoon redoing the armoury and defences in Napoleon’s apartment to his own exacting standards. Napoleon had fixed them drinks and enticed Illya into a chess game that turned into three, and a discussion that ran late into the evening.

Napoleon can’t even remember what they talked about. What he remembers is Illya sitting on his couch, a finger or two of vodka in his glass and an amused quirk to his lips. What he remembers is sitting opposite him in his armchair, suit jacket slung over the back and waistcoat unbuttoned. He rarely lets his persona drop, but around Illya he can’t seem to help it.

What he remembers is making Illya laugh and thinking: _Oh. How did I not see this coming?_

Napoleon grits his teeth as the fraying threads holding it all together begin to snap. His eyes grow hot and then tears begin to spill down his cheeks as he leans against the shower wall, heaving in a breath. It’s not enough; his mouth opens in a silent scream and he cries like he hasn’t done for years, ugly sobs tearing through his chest and it’s still not enough, he doesn’t think anything could be enough to cover the regret anchoring deep in his bones.

He can still taste the ash in the air, can still see Illya’s eyes flickering shut, can still hear his name on Illya’s lips. He squeezes his eyes shut as another sob is torn from his throat.

_Had we but world enough, and time,_ he thinks, and the words have never been truer since he first read them in an old book of poetry, sitting in a dugout in the middle of France and the middle of the war. He had once said that to Illya, after a difficult mission in which they couldn’t save everyone, and with half a bottle of scotch already in him. Illya had studied him for a long moment, looking concerned, and then taken the scotch bottle away from him.

“Don’t want you drowning in your vomit, Cowboy,” he had said, and Napoleon had laughed weakly, and let Illya bully him to bed. In the morning, he had put on sunglasses and Illya had said nothing.

He shuts off the shower and steps out, not even looking at himself in the mirror as he dries off and pulls out new clothes. Gaby had just shoved random things in from his closet, and he finds himself stilling as he pulls out a new waistcoat. His last one is still lying on the street, covered in dust and Illya’s blood.

He’s still holding the waistcoat in his hands when there’s a knock on the door, and Andrysiak sticks his head in. He glances at the waistcoat in Napoleon’s hand and there’s a sympathetic tilt to his head. “There’s a doctor outside,” he says, already stepping back and out of the way to let Napoleon push past him. A small corner of Napoleon’s mind decides he likes Andrysiak.

There is a doctor standing in the waiting room, Gaby waiting impatiently in front of him. “Well?” Napoleon asks, striding over to him.

“Agent Kuryakin has just gone into surgery,” the doctor says, sounding tired. “Our best surgical team is looking after him, but his condition is serious and not yet stable. He has multiple broken bones, including his left leg and some ribs, one of which we believe has lacerated his right lung and caused a pneumothorax. There is internal bleeding in his abdomen, most likely from his liver or kidneys, and that, along with the pneumothorax, is causing his blood pressure to keep dropping. We have stabilised the pneumothorax, but surgery is required to straighten the break in his leg and determine the internal damage.”

Gaby reels back as if hit, clutching Napoleon’s arm. Napoleon swallows. “And your prognosis?” he asks.

The doctor shrugs, and Napoleon wants to hit him. “If we can get the bleeding under control, then he might have a good chance of recovering,” he answers. “If it is his liver that is bleeding, then we can control that more easily than if it is his kidneys, or something worse. I’m afraid we will have to wait for the surgery to be completed before we know anything more.”

“And how long will that take?” Napoleon manages to ask.

“Anywhere up to ten hours,” the doctor answers. He studies their faces, and sighs. “You know, spies make awful patients, and you’re even worse when you are here in the waiting room. I’ve had people break into medical facilities in Tokyo to try and help their injured partners, so please believe me when I say you just have to wait until Kuryakin is out of surgery to see what is going to happen next. We do know what we’re doing.”

Napoleon, numb, just nods and puts his arm around Gaby. She’s shaking slightly, and presses back into him. He realises that this might be the first time she’s had to confront the impending mortality of spies. Over the past year of missions people have died, but nobody close to them, and whilst they’ve been injured before, none of them have been so drastically injured as this. He tugs her closer to him, breathing in the scent of her perfume, and clenches his jaw to stop it trembling.

The doctor sighs. “I will keep you updated,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me, there are other patients I must attend to.” He disappears through the doors, and the waiting room is silent.

Andrysiak glances at Napoleon. “I’m assuming you want to stay here,” he says, and Napoleon nods. “I’ll update Waverly, then, and get someone to bring down something for you to eat.” He grabs his communicator and steps outside for a moment.

Gaby sniffs, and Napoleon sighs. “I know,” he murmurs. “But Peril wouldn’t be Peril if he didn’t throw himself in harm’s way like this.”

“He didn’t, though,” Gaby says through tears. “He thought he was meeting a contact, and the CIA blew up a building on him.”

“Believe me, I am not letting that go,” Napoleon growls. “But I can’t even think of that until Illya is out of surgery and recovering. Once he is, I promise you that I will chase down who did this and make them pay.”

Gaby nods, and draws back from Napoleon, wiping her tears. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.

Napoleon shrugs. “Waverly has put me on leave, so I’m just going to stay here until Peril comes out of surgery,” he replies. “And then I’ll go from there.” He wiped a tear away from her cheek. “What are you going to do?”

Gaby shakes her head. “I need some space,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, I really am, but I need to get out of here for an hour or two.”

“No, Gaby, it’s okay,” Napoleon says softly. “Everyone reacts differently to something like this. Step outside, get some air, and I’ll get someone to find you if anything else happens.” Gaby nods, and presses a kiss to Napoleon’s cheek. He watches her leave with a pained smile that dims and disappears the moment the doors swing shut.

He slumps back into one of the chairs, and stares blankly at the wall until Andrysiak steps back in. “I saw Teller leave,” he says, coming to sit by Napoleon. “Will you? I can arrange for a cot to be set up in your office, if you want to sleep here at headquarters.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “I’ll stay here until Illya comes out of surgery,” he murmurs. Andrysiak just shrugs, and picks back up the case file he had been working on.

There’s a few minutes of silence before the other agent pauses, and then glances at Napoleon. “You know,” he says softly. “It took me three years before I could bear to put on a pair of Army regulation socks again, after the war.”

Napoleon stares at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he manages to get out.

Andrysiak shrugs. “I saw the way you were looking at that waistcoat,” he says. “I can only imagine the one you were wearing first is still back at the site of the explosion. During the war, one of my best friends bled out in front of me, and I didn’t notice how bloody my socks were until the next day. When I threw them out and went to put on a new pair, I couldn’t see anything but my friend’s blood on them.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “And your point?” he bites out.

To Andrysiak’s credit, he doesn’t rise to the bait. “We assign meaning and association to innocuous objects,” he simply says. “To a pair of socks, or a waistcoat. So don’t be surprised when it happens. That’s all.”

At that, Napoleon’s breath grinds to a halt. “His watch,” he murmurs.

Andrysiak frowns. “What?”

“The watch, Illya’s watch,” Napoleon says, suddenly frantic. “You can’t let them throw it out, even if it’s broken. It’s his father’s watch, he hates losing it, even if it’s broken they can’t just throw it out.”

Andrysiak holds up a hand. “I’ll go get it,” he says, and he disappears through the doors into Medical. Napoleon waits, a strange anxiousness making him twist the signet ring on his finger around until Andrysiak appears again. He hands the watch over to Napoleon. “It broke in the explosion,” he says, but Napoleon waves that off.

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, studying the cracked face of the watch. “If I can get a repair kit for it and a new glass face.”

Andrysiak huffs a brief laugh. “That’s certainly one of the more unusual requests I’ve had when doing this,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Napoleon slips the watch into his pocket. After having stolen it from Illya so many times, the weight is familiar. He leans back against the hard plastic of the chair and settles in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the medical terms and descriptions are researched to the best of my ability- well, not really, bc I'm at uni so I hope I can do better research than this, but researched to the limits of my patience with trawling through Wikipedia.  
> A pneumothorax is a collapsed lung, but they're actually not as life-threatening as you might think.  
> Crush injuries can happen like that- it's sometimes called the 'smiling death' because someone trapped can be awake and smiling, and then die a few minutes after whatever is trapping him is lifted off.  
> 'SB-eck' is the nickname for an officer in the Polish Security Services, the Służba Bezpieczeństwa.  
> (Wikipedia is wonderful, and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise)
> 
> The short bit where Napoleon's in the shower was actually really cathartic for me to write- god, sometimes there's nothing I wouldn't give to go back and be able to change things that have happened, and god sometimes the regret and the loss feels like it's really going to choke me. Sometimes, it feels like there's something in my chest that I want to scream out but I don't know how. But on the other side of that the memories are fucking fantastic, even if they still hurt at the moment.
> 
> And yes, humans are sentimental pieces of shit, and we assign meaning to literally anything- I know I do, and damn it still hurts sometimes. There have been wonderful fics out there involving Illya's watch, and I'm not good enough to jump on that wagon, but it's been fun to dip my toes in a little (I know, complete mixing of expressions there, but never mind).


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: descriptions of medical procedures/surgery, etc.  
> Poor Napoleon, he's having a rough few chapters, and it doesn't get any easier for him in this one.

The waiting room falls silent. Andrysiak sets himself up in a corner with his case files and never-ending cups of coffee, and gets to work. Napoleon kneels on the floor and sets Illya’s watch on a chair, along with the repair kit. He takes the waistcoat still in the bathroom, pushing back a shudder as he picks it up, and spreads it out across the chair to catch all the tiny parts of the watch as he carefully takes it apart.

He’s fixed Illya’s watch before; as spies, it’s inevitable that they break a few things in the course of their duties. Illya cracked the glass when throwing himself out of a burning building in Greece, and when they got thrown off a boat in the middle of the Indian Ocean the watch rusted up in the salt water. Both times, Napoleon remembers taking the watch from Illya’s trembling hands, sitting down in whatever safehouse or hotel they were staying in and spending hours putting it back together.

Even paying extra attention and time on the watch, it’s too soon before he’s doing the screws back up and slipping the watch into his pocket. There’s a sandwich sitting on the chair next to him, and a cup of cheap coffee. Andrysiak just waves a hand when Napoleon murmurs his thanks, and turns back to another file.

Napoleon grimaces at the coffee, but drinks it anyway. “You don’t have to stay here,” he says as he unwraps the sandwich. “I’m sure you have better things to do than keep me company.”

Andrysiak shrugs. “Waverly told me to do this, so I’m doing it,” he murmurs as he flips the page in his file. “I’m not running on any active missions at the moment, so I don’t have anything better to do.” He glances at Napoleon. “I know how this feels, but you just have to be patient and wait for the surgeons to finish.”

Napoleon sighs, and the maelstrom of fear and regret that he’s been pushing down rises to the surface and threatens to overflow. He leans forwards, running his hand through his hair, and clenches his jaw to stop a sob slipping through his lips.

“You know,” Andrysiak says. “You and Kuryakin were the talk of UNCLE when Waverly first recruited you. Still are, really.” He laughs softly. “I don’t think we’ve ever had agents recruited because they burnt nuclear weapons instructions before, and everyone was worried about a KGB agent being added to the mix.”

“Yes, I worked out pretty quickly that Waverly was keeping the two of us away from headquarters and on international missions,” Napoleon says. “The agents that we did work with were particularly wary of Peril.”

Andrysiak laughs. “Half the agents were betting you’d kill each other within the first month.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Believe me, it was close a couple of times,” he murmurs. “But Peril and I, neither of us are model examples of our agencies.”

“I don’t know,” Andrysiak muses. “I’ve read part of your file, so it’s definitely true for you, but Kuryakin? Take it from another Soviet agent: he’s the model that everyone in the KGB was held to.”

He hesitates. “I knew him,” he says, glancing at Napoleon. “Before UNCLE, I mean. I spent four months in Moscow back in the early fifties. Kuryakin had just finished his spetsnaz training- that was Oleg’s idea, I believe, to let him get some combat experience- and brought to Moscow to begin KGB training. Everyone at the KGB knew about him.”

“I’m not surprised,” Napoleon murmurs. Illya had told him some of his past in the spetsnaz and the KGB, just as Napoleon had gifted up some of the secrets in his past, his years in the war and then as a thief.

“Even at that age, he was impressive,” Andrysiak tells him. “We all knew the name Kuryakin of course, from his father. The higher ups liked using him as an example of what would happen to the family of dissenters- perfect indoctrination to the Soviet ideals, but they liked showing him off as well. We watched a training session of his. Ten other agents, all more experienced than him, and he just demolished them.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “That sounds like Peril,” he says. “Bull in a china shop, if I ever saw one.”

“I have to say, I was surprised to see him here,” Andrysiak says. “He was the perfect KGB agent.” Napoleon snorts in amusement, and Andrysiak smiles crookedly. “From an outsider’s point of view, at least,” he adds. “I’m aware of the…anger issues, shall we say, but in the KGB that was considered an asset that just needed honing and applying properly.”

“Yes, the KGB would think like that,” Napoleon murmurs. “But then the CIA would probably say the same.”

Andrysiak nods. “Kuryakin was considered the pinnacle for all KGB agents to work towards. He is human, he made mistakes and was punished for it like the rest of them, but he was the model agent. He did nothing but work for the KGB.” He huffs a laugh. “And then he is sent to team up with the CIA, and he disobeys orders and burns a tape containing everything his country would have needed to win the arms race.”

“So what, I ruined your perfect KGB agent?” Napoleon asks, the need to defend Illya suddenly rising up from the depths. “He was already breaking under that regime. Everyone does. No KGB agent lives for very long.”

Andrysiak holds up his hands. “No need to attack me over it,” he says, though there’s a glint of humour in his eyes. “I’m not KGB, and I never was. I’ve been UNCLE for years now.”

Napoleon lets out a breath. “I know,” he murmurs. “But it’s true.” Illya told him, late one night in a safehouse in Paraguay as both of them slowly melted in the heat, that KGB agents aren’t expected to live much beyond about six years of service. Napoleon had mused that it was the Russian way, jokingly, but Illya had just looked at him and reminded Napoleon of the Russian losses at Stalingrad, and at every major battle on the Eastern front. It was the Russian way to use soldiers as fodder for the machine guns, and Illya had reasoned that it was only the same for spies.

“Waverly only takes agents who can look beyond their countries to the bigger picture,” Andrysiak says. “And I would never have guessed Kuryakin was one of those. I suppose I was wrong. But then I never did know him very well, only the reputation the KGB had built.”

Napoleon just shrugs. He knows Illya has been quietly questioning the Soviet regime for years now, though only inside his own head. He knows that Illya is young enough to still have some ideals left, about the world and how it should be. But he also knows what a powerful motivator shame is, and how much of a shadow a man Illya barely knew left over his son’s life.

He thinks that without all the events in Rome, Illya would never have dared question the KGB out loud in any way, and Waverly would never have known to pick him up. He would have died at the end of a gun in some remote country, or by the hand of the very organisation he lived for when he was no longer useful, and Napoleon would have been none the wiser to his existence.

He thinks it’s better this way, even with the ache and fear sitting deep in his chest. At least this way he knew him. At least this way he got to love him, if only from afar.

0-o-0-o-0

Information trickles in, over the hours. Oleg confirms that the building had been a KGB safehouse, but had been abandoned three weeks prior due to a breach in security. He also confirms that nobody from the KGB sent any message to Illya about a meeting, and that he is currently in Moscow anyway. He seems only a little concerned over the potential loss of a KGB asset, as he called it.

Napoleon curses the entirety of the KGB in his head, and the damage that they have done to Illya over the years. The CIA did not do Napoleon much good either, but Napoleon has seen the marks that the KGB left on Illya, scars and psychoses and that deep anger he can find so difficult to control, and this is not the first time Napoleon wonders what else there is that Illya hasn’t told him.

He knows there is much he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t expect to know it all. He has his own secrets, after all, and their lives are complicated and messy. To explain it all to another person is impossible.

Gaby returns after an hour or so, once again with re-applied makeup, and three cups of coffee. “Waverly says he’s trying to get in contact with Sanders, but hasn’t been successful yet,” she says. “You wouldn’t know any other way of getting in touch with him, Solo?”

Napoleon shakes his head. “Unlikely,” he replies, gulping the coffee down for the caffeine and little more. “If Waverly can’t do it, then I won’t be able to.”

“He’ll have to surface soon, or it will look even more suspicious,” Andrysiak comments. “Waverly will be able to gather some evidence against him. He’s already got a recording of the phone call to you.”

“And then what?” Napoleon asks scathingly. “Sanders is American, he’s CIA. They don’t give a fuck about a KGB agent. The CIA won’t do anything to him. The government won’t either, not with this fucking mess between Russia and us.”

Part of him feels he should be more concerned UNCLE can record his phone calls, but he is rather jaded, and had honestly expected it. He wonders if they can get hold of whatever message the CIA sent Illya, framed as from his handlers, but Illya probably dismantled any listening devices the moment he moved into his apartment.

Andrysiak arches a brow. “Waverly has more pull than you might think,” he replies. “International politics between spies is always dicey and difficult to navigate correctly, but there’s nobody better at it than Waverly. The Kremlin is backing his enquiries, as will many other countries once he reaches out. The CIA will have no choice but to concede, in one way or another.”

“I find it very hard to believe Waverly can make other countries back this, unless they’re Soviet,” Napoleon remarks bitingly. “Any Western-allied countries will automatically take America’s side in this. It’s only one KGB agent.”

“Officially, yes,” Andrysiak says. “But this is shades of grey. The right word, in the right ear, can make a difference. Oh, Sanders won’t get arrested, or even fired. But there are other things Waverly can do.” He smiles crookedly. “Do you know what UNCLE stands for?”

“United Network for Command and Law Enforcement,” Gaby answers automatically. Andrysiak nods.

“Officially, yes,” he says. “Unofficially, no.” He glances between the two of them, and then stares. “Christ, Waverly certainly kept you busy with missions and out of headquarters if you haven’t heard this yet,” he remarks. “The UN part of UNCLE doesn’t officially stand for, well, the UN, but in all intents and purposes, it does.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “That’s impressive,” he says. “How come I’d never heard of this in the CIA?”

“Because Sanders wouldn’t give you the time of day if you shot Khrushchev himself,” Andrysiak points out.

Napoleon hesitates, and then shrugs. “Fair enough.”

They go back to waiting for news. Gaby takes Napoleon’s unworn jacket and uses it as a pillow, lying across a few of the hard plastic chairs in an attempt to doze. Napoleon doesn’t even try. He knows that as soon as he closes his eyes, all he will see is Illya’s face as he loses consciousness, his eyes slipping shut and jaw going slack. He knows he will wake up with Illya’s name on his lips, and he doesn’t think he can stomach that right now.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then the door to Medical swings open and a nurse appears. Napoleon grasps Gaby’s shoulder as he jumps to his feet.

The nurse interrupts him before he can even say anything. “Agent Kuryakin is out of surgery,” she says. “But that’s all I can tell you, seeing as I wasn’t even in the operating theatre. The doctor is going to take Kuryakin to recovery, make sure he’s stable, and then he’ll come out and talk to you.”

“I’ll let Waverly know,” Andrysiak says. “He’ll want to come down and hear what the doctor has to say.” He picks up the communicator and steps away for a moment.

Gaby blinks blearily, still not quite awake, and then sits back down in a chair. Napoleon can’t bear to stay still, suddenly, and starts pacing up and down the length of the room. After a few minutes even that grows grating, and he changes direction.

Waverly arrives, looking wide awake despite it now being nearly three in the morning. “Solo, if you could stop pacing I would much appreciate it,” he says mildly as he takes a seat. “It really is irritating.”

“Sorry Sir,” Napoleon says, and he drops into the nearest seat. Fear clutches at his throat and he starts to twist his signet ring on his finger, until even that isn’t enough and he starts drumming his leg against the floor.

“Solo,” Waverly says, arching a brow. “If anything, that is worse than the pacing. Sit still and wait.”

“I’ve been sitting still and waiting for hours,” Napoleon remarks. “Sir.”

“Well, do that for a little while more,” Waverly replies. “Your pacing will do nothing to affect Kuryakin’s condition.” Napoleon rolls his eyes, but forces himself to sit still. It lasts all of three minutes before he goes back to twisting his signet ring on his finger.

Finally, after what seems hours but the clock says was only twenty two minutes, the door opens and a doctor steps through, pulling off her surgical cap. Napoleon jumps to his feet. “Well?” he asks, studying the doctor. She looks tired.

“Agent Kuryakin is stable, but his condition is serious,” the doctor says. “Sit down, please.”

“No, I think I’ll stay right here,” Napoleon says. “How is he?”

The doctor sighs slightly. “He was haemorrhaging internally from his liver, mostly, but also from his kidneys and spleen. We’ve had to perform damage control surgery, which means trying to stop the bleeding with packing in his abdomen, and temporarily closing the incision. There’s a risk that his blood will stop coagulating and won’t form clots, and that he’ll develop hypothermia, so we cannot progress further with surgery until he’s more stable.”

Napoleon gapes at her, and the doctor continues. “We’ve purposefully lowered his blood pressure to encourage clotting. He has a chest drain in to keep his lung inflated, where he had the pneumothorax, but that’s fairly simple and will be taken out in two to three days. His leg fracture has been set, and doesn’t require surgery. The rib fractures might require surgery, but we will have to wait until he is more stable to do that.”

Next to Napoleon, Gaby gulps. Napoleon is still staring at the doctor. “Anything else?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

The doctor smiles sympathetically. “I know it sounds like a lot, but I’m actually cautiously optimistic about his chances,” she says. “He wasn’t trapped long enough for any crush injuries to develop. Livers heal quickly, and once the bleeding is under control he won’t need surgery to repair it. We’ll go back in tomorrow to ensure bleeding has mostly stopped, repair his kidneys and spleen, and permanently close the incision.”

“Can we see him?” Napoleon asks.

“You can’t go too close to him,” the doctor warns, sensing the desperate edge to Napoleon’s voice. “There’s too high a risk of infection, but you can briefly step inside the room and see him.” Napoleon just nods, Gaby pressing into his side, and he wraps an arm around her as they walk through the doors.

“I should warn you, he doesn’t look great,” the doctor says. “We’ve intubated him, to try and take some stress off his ribs, and he’s under heated blankets to combat hypothermia. He’s wearing a neck brace, in case there is spinal damage we didn’t pick up on the x-rays. There is a lot of equipment around him, and it can look a little startling.”

Napoleon doesn’t care. He knows he will later, he knows that the sight of Illya surrounded by tubes and lines, a machine breathing for him, will keep him awake for many nights, but he’s tired and running on caffeine and fear, and he just wants to see with his own eyes that Illya is still alive. He can’t let the last image he has of Illya be his eyes slipping shut, Napoleon’s name on his lips.

The doctor leads them through Medical, and down a corridor. “He’s in this room,” she says, gesturing at a door. “Please don’t go beyond the edge of the room. We can’t risk contamination.”

Napoleon nods, and it takes more courage than he’d like to admit to step up to the door and slip inside. Gaby follows him, and there’s a choked off gasp from behind Napoleon as she sees Illya.

Napoleon can’t find the words, but he lets Gaby come to his side and slips an arm around her. Waverly steps into the room briefly, nods, and then steps back outside with the doctor.

Napoleon can’t look away from Illya. There’s a tube running out of his mouth to a machine that’s rhythmically hissing in the corner of the room, breathing for him. His face is pale, hair falling soft across his forehead, and Napoleon’s fingers itch to brush it back out of his eyes. He even starts forwards a step, but Gaby clutches his arm and he stops.

The rest of Illya is covered in blankets, but there are various tubes snaking out from beneath it. Napoleon identifies the chest tube, slowly dripping red, and at least two IV lines, but the rest he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to know, as long as they are keeping Illya alive.

A heart monitor is slowly beeping, one of the numbers continuously flashing in red.

He looks so small.

That’s the first thing that really comes to the front of Napoleon’s mind. With all the tubes and equipment around him, covered in blankets, Illya looks so small. He almost doesn’t look like himself, but Napoleon would know his face anywhere, would recognise him by his eyes alone, and he knows that’s the man he loves lying there, gripping onto life with his usual stubbornness.

He almost laughs at himself, but the sound would be too strange in this grey room. He’s turned into a poet. A terrible one, but then he’s always been bad with metaphors. He’s too elaborate and he lies.

A few minutes passes too quickly, and all too soon the doctor comes back into the room. “You’ll have to step out now,” she says.

“What if something happens?” Gaby asks. “What if he gets worse?” Her voice cracks, but she pulls herself up anyway, and Napoleon feels a brief flicker of a strange sort of pride in her.

“Someone is monitoring him constantly,” the doctor says, looking impatient. “Any change and you will know. Now please, step outside.”

Gaby glances once more at Illya, and then tugs Napoleon out of the room. He stumbles, and for a second can’t take his eyes off Illya, in case this is the last time he’ll ever see him.

“Solo, let’s go,” Gaby says softly, and finally the door swing shut and Napoleon steps out into the corridor. He’s silent until they walk back into the waiting room, the doctor staying behind.

Waverly cleans off his glasses. “Well, this is a terrible mess,” he remarks.

“A bit of an understatement,” Napoleon remarks, pacing across the room. “Illya nearly died. He still might! And at the hands of the fucking CIA, no less.”

“Solo,” Gaby says softly, but he shrugs off her hand on his arm, and turns to Waverly.

“I’d like to know what you’re going to do about this,” he snaps at Waverly, voice growing hot. “I’d like to know why you’re standing here talking about how much of a mess this is when Illya is lying there, half dead because someone fucked up and they got to him!” His voice rises until he’s shouting, unable to control it and not even wanting to. “He’s your agent! He’s your fucking agent, the CIA tried to fucking kill him, and you’re just standing here!”

Gaby steps in front of him and pushes him back with a sharp shove. “Solo, stop it,” she hisses, and Napoleon heaves in a breath. He can feel his hands trembling with anger, and distantly he wonders if this is how Illya feels when he has an episode.

“Are we just cannon fodder to you?” he spits at Waverly. “Are we just expendable? Yet more soldiers to be shot down or blown up in this fucking game? Do you actually care?”

“Let me assure you, Solo,” Waverly says calmly. “I do care. You may think that I see you as the CIA does, or Kuryakin as the KGB does, but I hope to prove to you that I do not.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “In light of the situation, I will let your remarks go,” he says. “Repeat them, and I will not be so lenient. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am in the middle of a delicate international negotiation at the moment. Please go back to your apartment and get what rest you can. I don’t want to see you back here until midday.”

He steps neatly around Napoleon and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him. Napoleon’s chest is heaving, and he almost turns to follow Waverly, demand answers, but Gaby steps in front of him and slaps him sharply across the face.

“You _arschloch_ ,” she hisses. “You absolute _verdammter Idiot_! What was that for?”

Napoleon rubs his cheek and stares at Gaby. She faces up to him, eyes sharp and fists balled at her side. “I can’t believe you,” she hisses at him. “I don’t care how upset you are, you can’t say that to Waverly!” She glares at him. “If Illya were here he wouldn’t let you say that.”

“Yes, but he isn’t here, Gaby,” Napoleon hisses back. “He’s lying in that room with a fucking machine breathing for him. He might die, and even if he doesn’t, the CIA might decide to give it another go, and there’s nothing we can fucking do.”

Gaby slaps him again. “Don’t you dare talk like that,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “Don’t you dare.”

“We’re just pawns, Gaby,” Napoleon says, his voice tiring. “We’re pawns, and nobody cares if we get sacrificed. Nobody cares if Illya loses his life to the game.”

“I care,” Gaby snaps. “You care so much you’re breaking over it!” She studies his face, head cocked to one side, and Napoleon suddenly feels raw. “What is he to you, Solo?” she asks. “What is Illya to you?”

Napoleon stares at her, horror creeping through him. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest. “I need some air,” he gets out, backing away from Gaby and all the truths he could never admit, and he manages not to run when he slams the doors open and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 kudos, thanks guys and gals and non-binary pals!!
> 
> So all of the medical procedures described- damage control surgery, purposefully lowering blood pressure to encourage clotting, etc- are all as accurate as I could get them with Wikipedia. For the nerds out there (who am I kidding, that's literally all of us on this website) if you're interested Wikipedia has a long and extensive page on damage control surgery that is really interesting if you're interested in that sort of stuff.
> 
> During WWII the Russians suffered heavy losses, particularly at battles like the one for Stalingrad (which lasted for six months) partially because of the tactics mentioned.
> 
> The fact that the UN in UNCLE stands for the UN is a nod to the tv show- that was the original plan, but it turns out you can't use the UN's name in tv shows like that. I have started the tv show, I'm about halfway through season 1 and it's quite good so far!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have good news! As of last night, the sequel to this story is now finished- it stands at nearly 49k of angst, fluff and, as ever, too many tropes to count. Seriously, you thought this story was bad, just wait until you read the sequel.
> 
> So in this chapter there's a sort of unintentional coming out, in that a character correctly guesses and asks Napoleon. But, as the tags read, there is no period-typical homophobia, because dammit I wrote this story during the first Pride during which I was out, so screw historical accuracy. There's a brief moment of fear, but then a whole lot of relief and acceptance.

His hands are shaking so much he can’t get the cigarette to light. Napoleon curses and flicks the lighter again, bringing it to the cigarette in his mouth. Finally it catches and he takes a drag, blowing the smoke out into the darkness.

“That was close,” says a voice in the darkness, and Napoleon jumps.

“Jesus,” he mutters, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Warn me first.”

Andrysiak smiles a crooked smile, and wanders up to Napoleon. His hands are in his pocket and he looks completely unconcerned about what just happened. “It’s a bit cold out here,” he remarks.

Napoleon shrugs. “What are you after?” he asks, forgoing any niceties. There wasn’t much place for them on the front steps of headquarters at three in the morning.

“I wouldn’t confront Waverly like that again,” Andrysiak says, pulling out a cigarette of his own and lighting it. “You got off easily this time, but normally he would not accept something like that.” Napoleon opens his mouth, but Andrysiak cuts across him. “Don’t tell me you don’t care,” he says. “Because you do. UNCLE is the best you’ll ever get in this bloody awful game we play. Don’t throw it away for your anger over what happened to your partner.”

Napoleon huffs. “I won’t,” he murmurs. “And I’ll admit, I went too far just now. But…” He trails off, and drags on his cigarette.

“You know, I never chose this life,” he murmurs. “I was an art thief. I never wanted to be a spy. Illya was moulded and trained for this all his life, he’s a far better spy than I’ll ever be, and yet he’s the one who’s nearly dead in there.”

“Yeah, well nobody ever said this game was fair,” Andrysiak says, dragging on his own cigarette. He shakes his head. “I thought for a moment you might try and swing a punch, back then.”

Napoleon huffs a bitter laugh. “I thought of it, but I wouldn’t dare,” he replies. “Do that in the CIA and they’ll shoot you, if they’re feeling kind.” Andrysiak just nods, and hands Napoleon another cigarette.

“I know how you feel,” he says softly. “Somewhat, at least. Most of the agents in that building behind us do as well. You don’t spend long in this life without losing someone, or coming close to it.”

Napoleon drags on his cigarette. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ve never…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“You’ve never had someone you’ve cared about this much,” Andrysiak offers. “You’ve never come so close to losing someone you’ve loved before.”

Napoleon stares at him. “What are you implying?” he asks, heart suddenly hammering so fast he thinks he might be sick. He was a thief for years. He knows what the laws are in this country.

“Relax,” Andrysiak says with a wry smile. “I don’t care.” He takes a drag on his cigarette. “I was there when the Belzec camp was liberated during the war, and that…” He shakes his head. “That still haunts me now. I saw men wearing pink triangles alongside those with the Star of David. I don’t care who they were, or who they loved. Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”

He shakes his head again at Napoleon’s stare. “I joined UNCLE because I wanted to stop people suffering like they did in that camp,” he says. “And someone whom I love very much convinced me that some laws are out-dated and unfair. Not everyone here is so…open-minded, but some are. As long as you’re discreet and it doesn’t affect your work, Waverly will look past it. The old man probably knows a little more than he lets on, if you know what I mean.”

Napoleon just keeps staring at him. “I’m not like that,” he manages to get out.

Andrysiak arches a brow. “But you love him,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Oh, I’m aware there are many different ways to love someone,” he adds. “And it might not necessarily be…that. But if it is, well…” He trails off again.

“You won’t be the only one,” he says eventually.

Napoleon just keeps staring at Andrysiak, and finds himself lost for words. Andrysiak shrugs, and stamps out his cigarette under his toe. “You took that mission to seduce that arms dealer,” he says. “There are others who will take that specific type of mission. They’re still UNCLE agents like everyone else.”

Napoleon clears his throat. “Well, I suppose that’s good to know,” he murmurs eventually. “Wish someone had written a handbook for this damn place.”

Andrysiak laughs. “I know, it’s a strange place sometimes,” he replies. “Anyway, there was another reason I came out here. Waverly was serious when he said that he doesn’t want to see you back here until midday. I’ll drive you back to your apartment, if you want.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’ll call a taxi. You’re probably as tired as I am, and it feels unfair to make you do that for me. Like you said, most people here have been in this position at one point or another. I’m not the only one.”

Andrysiak shrugs. “Fair enough, then,” he says. He pulls something out of his pocket. “Here’s a communicator. If anything changes with Kuryakin’s condition, someone will let you know.”

Napoleon pockets it, and steps off the steps onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for everything,” he says. “I’ll be back at midday.”

Andrysiak smiles crookedly. “I’ll be here,” he says. “Get a couple hours of sleep if you can.” He pauses as he turns to go back inside. “Kuryakin is one of the most stubborn people I think I’ve ever met. If anyone can pull through this, I think he can.”

Napoleon smiles, even as his chest aches. He turns and walks away, for now, and lights another cigarette as he goes.

0-o-0-o-0

He goes back to his apartment. Someone has cleaned the smashed wine glass from the floor, and taken the pans off the hob. The food, Napoleon finds, has been left in the fridge. Napoleon isn’t hungry, but he forces himself to eat some of it, leaning against the table in his kitchen.

He runs his fingers over the marks and scratches on the table, his fingers trailing along a gouge at the edge that was from when Illya, exhausted after a mission, fell asleep at the table and Napoleon made the mistake of grabbing his shoulder to wake him. Illya has sat at that table many times whilst Napoleon cooked dinner, always eating as much as Napoleon can make. Napoleon has learnt to double the ingredients when he’s cooking for Illya as well, to fill the bottomless pit that is his partner.

There’s still a chess set at the coffee table, pieces set out to start a new game. Illya has never been in the habit of buying unnecessary things for himself, so when his old chess set was lost, Napoleon bought him a new one. Somehow, it’s never left his apartment.

Everywhere Napoleon looks, he sees Illya by the gaps suddenly there in his apartment. He knows it’s stupid, he knows Illya isn’t even dead and that there’s nothing different about his apartment from this evening, but he can’t help the grief that grips his throat and makes it hard to breathe.

Eventually he collapses on his bed and somehow, amongst it all, manages to fall asleep. His dreams are fragmented, images of Illya sitting on his sofa, lounging in his bed, dying in the midst of rubble on the street. He jolts awake when he dreams of Illya’s lips on his, and his laugh in the dream becomes an ugly sob as he wakes.

He feels like there’s something in his chest, and he wants to scream it out but he doesn’t know how. Instead he buries it, underneath a three piece suit and pomade in his hair, shoes of Italian leather and the lock picks hidden in an inside jacket pocket. The weight of them is familiar, and calms him somewhat.

Lastly, he picks up Illya’s watch that he’d carefully set on the nightstand before he’d collapsed on his bed, and slipped it into his pocket. For a brief moment he considers fastening it on his wrist, but he’s sure if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to stop looking at it every second.

Illya said he should take it, back on that street. Right now, Napoleon is just…safeguarding it, and nothing more. Once Illya is back on his feet, he’ll give it back.

It’s still an hour before midday, and Napoleon spends it cleaning the kitchen, doing something with his hands just to keep them busy. His mother always used to chide him for being unable to stay still. _You’re at sixes and sevens,_ she used to say. _Keep your hands to yourself for a moment!_

Napoleon doesn’t let himself think much of his mother as he cleans the pans left in his sink. If he does, all he’s going to do is wish she were here, and that’s impossible. It’s amazing, he thinks, how in the end most men just want their mothers. He’s seen enough men die to know that.

Sometimes he wonders if they never grew up, all the people who play this game they’re stuck in. Sometimes he wonders, in amongst all the blood and the lies, whether most of them are just children who never got tired of playing hide and seek.

The moment the clock strikes midday he’s stepping through the main doors into UNCLE headquarters. Though every part of him aches to go straight to Medical and walk into Illya’s room, he knows he can’t. Instead, he takes the lift and goes up to Section One.

Waverly’s secretary looks up, and smiles softly upon seeing him. “He’s in his office,” she says. “Go ahead.”

Napoleon smiles, but can’t muster up the energy to harmlessly flirt with her like he normally does. He knows she thinks it’s sweet but little more, but it keeps him in her good books, which is valuable enough.

He knocks on Waverly’s door, and enters at the muffled invitation. Waverly looks up from his desk. “Solo,” he says, in that infuriating British accent that gives nothing away. “I would have expected you to be in Medical.”

“I’m heading down after,” Napoleon says. “But I wanted to talk to you first, Sir.”

“And what do you want to talk about, Solo?” Waverly asks, selecting another piece of paper from a file on his desk and skimming through it.

Napoleon pulls himself up straighter. “I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night,” he says, a part of him bracing himself for the punishment he’s still expecting. “It was inappropriate and uncalled for.”

“Yes, it rather was,” Waverly says, setting down the paper and steepling his fingers, looking at Napoleon over the rims of his glasses. “Nevertheless, it was also understandable. Your partner has been hurt by the people you once trusted, to some extent, and it is understandable that you are upset. Lashing out at me was not the wisest of choices, but given the situation, I accept your apology and only ask that you refrain from doing so again.”

Napoleon inclines his head. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, and he means it. “Is there any progress on the investigation into why this happened?”

“You are not allowed to be part of it, Solo,” Waverly warns. “You are far too emotionally compromised when it comes to Kuryakin.” Napoleon, with effort, manages to stop his expression changing, and Waverly sighs. “The CIA is being difficult, but then that is to be expected,” he says. “We have sufficient evidence that this was malicious, and intended for Kuryakin, so we can pursue it within the law.”

Waverly looks troubled for a moment, and Napoleon frowns. “The KGB have also been in contact,” Waverly says reluctantly. “They have requested that if Kuryakin survives and is sufficiently fit enough, his loan to UNCLE be terminated and he returns to Russia.”

Napoleon’s mind blanks. “What?” he manages to get out. “Sir, you can’t…Illya doesn’t want to go back to the KGB. He can’t. It will break him, you know that, if they don’t just kill him outright for disobeying orders.” He can feel his heart racing in his chest, and he stares at Waverly, not able to do anything but stare and hope against hope that the KGB won’t take Illya away.

Waverly holds up one hand. “Solo, I know all of this,” he says. “And I have no intention of breaking up my most promising partnership for the whims of the Soviets, let alone giving up one of my top agents. Rest assured that I will do everything in my considerable power to keep Kuryakin here, especially as the KGB share some of the blame for allowing this to happen.”

Napoleon lets himself relax slightly, though he can’t fully trust Waverly’s words. Waverly looks at him over the rims of his glasses again. “Do you know why I kept the two of you together as partners, Solo?” he asks. “I certainly could have separated you up, and it would have given me far fewer headaches. But I didn’t, I decided to keep the two of you together. Do you know why that is?”

“Because we didn’t kill each other the first time round?” Solo offers.

Waverly actually smiles at that. “Because, Solo, underneath your differences in ideologies and constant, irritating arguments, the two of you actually see the world in similar ways. Beneath your cynicism and Kuryakin’s anger, the two of you both want to do right by the innocent people we protect, and what you believe to be right is, for the most part, in agreement with each other. That is the basis of a successful partnership, above everything else.”

Solo hesitates. “If that’s what you think,” he says eventually. “Not that it’s worth much now.” He hesitates again. “The extent of Illya’s injuries,” he says. “If he isn’t able to…” He forces the words to leave his lips, and makes his voice stay firm. “If he cannot return to duty as a field agent, what will happen?”

“He will stay here,” Waverly says immediately. “UNCLE agents remain my agents. No matter what, Kuryakin will have a place here at UNCLE.”

Napoleon breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank you Sir,” he says. “If I may, I’d like to go down to Medical now.”

“Of course,” Waverly says. “Let me know when Kuryakin goes in for his second surgery.”

Napoleon nods, and lets a little bit of weight drop from his shoulders as he shuts the door behind him.

“Solo, you look terrible,” Waverly’s secretary says. Napoleon doesn’t even bother to refute it. “Did you get some sleep last night?”

“A few hours,” Napoleon replies. “Don’t worry about me, Deena, I’ll be fine.”

Deena hums, not sounding convinced. “We’re all worried about Kuryakin as well, Solo,” she says. “All the secretaries, at least. If you need anything, just let us know and we’ll do our best.” She shuffles some paper on her desk, tucking a perfectly coiled lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ve all been there, or known someone who was.”

“Thanks Deena, but I’ll be fine,” Napoleon says. He heads for the door and then pauses. “Actually,” he muses, turning back to her with a slight smile on his face. “There is something you could do for me. Do you still know Celia over at Langley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that before WWII, pink was the colour associated with boys, and blue with girls? The reason this changed is because in the concentration camps in WWII (Belzec was one of these), during the Holocaust, homosexual men were identified in the camps by pink triangles, just as Jews were identified by the Star of David. It wasn't just Jews who were persecuted- Romani people, communists and socialists, disabled people and homosexuals were also rounded up and systematically killed.
> 
> For those people who may not know as much about the Holocaust- it is deeply entrenched in European history, and even more so for those in continental Europe (I'm British, and I've studied the subject for multiple years throughout school), but I know it is not as prevalent in other countries' school curriculum- please do try and read about it if you can. There's a huge amount of information out there, and it should be remembered.
> 
> Oh, Deena is 100% based on the character from Dreamgirls, Deena Jones.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another massive trope included in this chapter, involving bedside confessions to unconscious people. That last scene made my friend squeal when I showed it to her, so I hope you all like it!
> 
> Also, more doctors being totally fed up with codependent spies getting in her way.

Napoleon steps into the waiting room to find Gaby already there and holding out a cup of coffee. “Apologised to Waverly?” she asks.

“Yes,” Napoleon murmurs, taking a gulp of the coffee and wincing as he scalds his tongue. “Don’t mother me, Gaby.”

“I will if you can’t take care of yourself,” Gaby snaps at him. “Which you seem incapable of doing at the moment. Did you eat something before coming here?” Napoleon’s silence is enough for her, and she huffs in annoyance. “Stay here, and I’ll get you a sandwich. Drink some water.”

“I have coffee,” Napoleon protests, but Gaby fixes him with a look and he sighs. “Fine. Fine, I’ll drink some water and eat a sandwich and do whatever else you want me to.”

“If you did that, I wouldn’t have had so many headaches over the past year from your antics,” Gaby remarks. She gets to her feet, gives him one last pointed look, and leaves. Napoleon, suddenly feeling petulant, drinks the rest of his coffee and pours himself another cup.

He hates the coffee at headquarters. Illya gives him grief for going out and buying better coffee, whenever they’re back in New York, but then Napoleon thinks something would be wrong if Illya didn’t take every opportunity to scorn him for his decadent capitalist ways.

Of course, Illya pretends to like his coffee black as sin, but Napoleon knows that Illya has a sweet tooth, and really prefers lattes.

He first noticed in Switzerland, when they were on a long stakeout and he stepped out to buy them something to eat. As an afterthought he bought a few éclairs that were sat in the café window. In the car, Illya didn’t even look away from the scope he had trained on the building they were watching, but Napoleon had noticed when he took an éclair, bit into it and abruptly paused. He had glanced at Napoleon, cheeks suddenly dusted pink, but finished the éclair anyway.

A few minutes later, Napoleon had grinned in delight when Illya’s hand snuck into the bag again and pulled out another éclair. After that, Napoleon has always delighted in buying whatever treats he can find and leaving them out, only to find them eaten a few minutes later, and Illya’s lips coated with soft powder or a sticky glaze.

Distantly, Napoleon thinks he should buy some éclairs. And then he realises that Illya is lying in Medical with packing in his abdomen to stop him bleeding out, and even if he survives there’s no way of telling how much he’ll recover. He sighs, rubs his hands over his eyes and tells himself that he’s cried enough over the past few days. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work very well.

Gaby finds him like that, hunched over on one of the stupid chairs in the waiting room, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and stop the tears. She sighs softly, setting down the sandwich she was carrying, and sits down next to him.

“You love him, don’t you,” she says, and Napoleon, too miserable to care anymore, just nods. Surprisingly, Gaby doesn’t look shocked. “Well, there you go,” she says. “Pretty poor time to come to terms with it, though. Unless…” She studies him, and then sighs exasperatingly. “Have you really been pining for that long? Have you said nothing to him?”

Napoleon, without really meaning to, huffs a laugh. “Of course not,” he says. “What should I say? He wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

Gaby tuts, and slips an arm through Napoleon’s. “I think he would, but we can save that for when he’s better,” she says. “Now, have a look at this file for me whilst we’re waiting. There’s evidence a shell company is funnelling funds into gangs in Brazil, but we can’t trace the money or work out why they’re doing it. I think it’s a political manoeuvre, Andrysiak says it’s a corporation trying to leverage something to buy out buildings in Rio de Janeiro.”

Napoleon takes the file, and spends a while leafing through it. “Everything is ultimately down to two things,” he tells Gaby as he reads. “Power or money. Usually it’s a bit of both, especially here in the US.” He shakes his head, scanning bank transfers. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of corruption that I saw with the CIA.”

“I grew up in East Berlin,” Gaby points out. “I’m well aware of what corruption is and how it works.”

Napoleon hums. “Yes, but the US is the pinnacle of capitalism,” he replies. He sighs softly. “Sometimes I think Peril might be along the right lines, with some of his ideals.”

Gaby arches a brow. “Darling, I don’t think you could ever give up your decadent capitalist lifestyle,” she says. “No matter how much you love him.”

Napoleon doesn’t say anything, and keeps reading the file. He turns the page, and an actual smile appears on his lips. “Ah, this might end up being quite easy,” he says. “If I can have an international phone. This is probably US-funded, by the way, if they’re using these banks.”

Gaby gets him the phone, and he dials the number from memory. “Selina,” he says when it’s answered. “It’s Napoleon Solo. Are you still working at your Swiss bank?” Gaby arches a brow as he waits for an answer, wondering who is on the other end of the phone.

“Excellent,” he says after a few moments. “In that case, I believe you owe me a favour or two.”

He spends a few more minutes on the phone and then hangs up. “She will fax over the account details in the morning,” he says to Gaby. “You can trace it back to the people responsible from there.” He hands her back the file. “In my opinion, it’s a corporation being unofficially backed by some political power.”

“Who was that on the phone?” Gaby asks.

“An old friend,” is all that Napoleon says, and he goes back to waiting.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya goes in for his second surgery in the evening, and Napoleon refuses to leave the waiting room, even when Gaby asks him to at least go and get something to eat. Andrysiak turns up a few minutes later with sandwiches.

“There’s no point,” he tells Gaby. “I wouldn’t even try.” He waves a sandwich in front of Napoleon’s face. “Not eating won’t affect Kuryakin in any way at all,” he says. “Stop being an idiot and take it.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes, but takes the sandwich.

It takes nearly five hours before the doctor appears. “He’ll be okay,” is the first thing she says, as Napoleon jumps to his feet and hurries towards her. “We’ll have to watch him carefully for the next few days, but barring any complications, he’s going to be fine.”

“What…” Napoleon’s voice is hoarse, and he licks his lips before starting again. “What was the damage? How much of it is going to last?”

“His liver is still slowly bleeding, but that will stop within the next day,” the doctor says. “We repaired his kidneys and spleen. His core muscles are damaged, so we’ll see how those heal in the next few weeks, along with his ribs.” She studies Napoleon’s face.

“You spies are always all the same,” she says, with a look of long suffering. “I can’t tell you if he’s going to make a full enough recovery to return to the field. I can’t even tell you if he’s going to pull through these next few days. Complications could arise, though I doubt that with everything Kuryakin has survived so far, such complications would be enough to stop him. What I can tell you is that he will need months of physical therapy if he wants any chance of returning. It’s not certain.”

Napoleon nods. “When can we see him?”

“In the morning, and no amount of charm or bribery will get you through those doors a moment before eight am,” the doctor says sternly. “Go home, go to sleep, and come back later. I will forbid you entry at all if you break in.”

At that, Gaby shoots Napoleon a look, and Napoleon tries not to look like he’d just been considering it.

“Go home,” the doctor repeats. “You look terrible, especially you, Solo. Get some sleep.” She turns back towards Medical, muttering something about co-dependent spies and how fucking difficult her job was with them involved.

Instead, Napoleon wanders up to his office and slumps onto the sofa there. There’s a blanket and pillow piled there, and some random clothes that turn out to be a cotton shirt and pants when he shakes them out. He smiles slightly. Andrysiak apparently thinks of everything.

He glances up, and sees the photo resting on his desk.

Gaby took it in Istanbul, just after they’d finished the mission. They were out on the balcony of the hotel having drinks, like they’d done in Rome, only this time there weren’t any nuclear weapons instructions smouldering in an ashtray. Napoleon hadn’t even noticed she’d taken the picture until she’d given him and Illya a copy each for Christmas. Illya’s, he knows, is on the mantelpiece in his apartment.

In it, Illya is wearing a turtleneck even in the sweltering heat, but Napoleon knows it’s more to cover up the road rash and bruises down his neck and one side from being thrown out a car at high speeds than because of any ridiculous fashion sense. Napoleon has a bruise down one side of his face, but it’s the side facing away from the camera, so he looks his usual suave self in the photo, sunglasses and all.

There’s a wry smirk on Illya’s lips, the tail end of laughter at Napoleon’s expense. Napoleon had been mourning the loss of another suit to the cause, and wondering if he could add it to the list of expenses for this mission. Illya, to Napoleon’s surprise, had burst out laughing at that, and then made some scathing remark.

Even now, having stared at that picture for months, Napoleon still can’t remember what Illya had said. He had been too distracted by Illya laughing. In the picture, he can see the surprise and delight and devotion already there in his face, and he wonders why it took him so long to realise what is so obvious to anyone who looks at this photo.

Napoleon falls asleep staring at the photo, tears drying on his cheeks.

0-o-0-o-0

He’s waiting impatiently with Gaby in the waiting room of Medical when the clock strikes eight. The doctor sighs as she opens the door and ushers them through. “Please tell me you went home and slept,” she says as she leads them into Medical.

Napoleon just stays silent. “When will we know that he’s going to be okay?” Gaby asks.

“We’ll keep him on the ventilator for a couple more days to ease the pressure on his ribs, so he’ll be sedated for that,” the doctor says. “When we take him off the ventilator, we’ll wean him off the sedation, which will take another couple of days. Barring no complications, he’ll start waking up in four to five days.”

She glances between the two of them. “I know it doesn’t look like it, when you see him, but he was very lucky. There’s no spinal damage as far as we can tell, which would usually be a high risk with an explosion like the one he was caught in, and the concussion will repair itself before he wakes up. It could have been so much worse.”

“Yes, that’s terribly comforting,” Napoleon mutters. The doctor glares at him, and he shuts his mouth. There are worse things than being on the wrong side of a doctor, but not many.

The doctor continues talking about recovery times and drugs and a million other things as she opens the door to the hospital room, but it all becomes white noise the moment that Napoleon sees Illya.

He still looks so small, but there’s a slight colour to his cheeks that wasn’t there before, and though the room looks similar, and the amount of equipment and tubes is probably the same, just knowing that he’s going to be okay makes the ache in Napoleon’s chest lessen slightly. He sits down in one of the chairs and studies Illya. “Visiting hours are until five,” the doctor says.

“He’s not going to listen to that,” Gaby tells her. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to sleep in here. Anything more, I can’t guarantee.”

“Fair enough,” the doctor says. She leans against the doorway. “You spies really are all the same,” she says, waving a hand at Napoleon. “I’ve seen this a thousand times before, and to every person I say the same thing.”

“Enlighten us,” Napoleon says, glancing over at her. The doctor gives him a sharp smile, but he thinks there might be something softer beneath it.

“The best thing you can do for your partner is be here when they wake up,” she says. “And to be in a fit state to help them. Kuryakin is going to need a lot of treatment, which falls to us medical staff, but he also will need a lot of care and help. Time and time again, I’ve seen agents’ partners provide that far better than we ever could.” She smiles, and this time it’s softer.

“He trusts you, Solo,” the doctor says. “And that is everything. So you need to be patient, and prepared to take a lot of the weight once Kuryakin wakes up and is recovering.”

Napoleon just nods. “We’ll be here,” he says, gently squeezing Gaby’s hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

The doctor leaves them alone, and Gaby walks to the side of Illya’s bed as Napoleon watches, slumped in his chair. She grasps his hand and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “We’ll be here,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t you worry about anything. Just get better, okay?” Her voice cracks on the last words and she chokes back a sob. “We’re right here.”

Napoleon gently grabs her hand as she steps back, but he finds that he has no words for her. She chose this life, this godawful game that they all play, but he thinks this might be one of the first times she’s ever encountered just what they can lose whilst playing.

He doesn’t have words to comfort her, not right now. He’s known what he could lose to the game ever since the war, and he knows people don’t last long in the game without coming to terms with that. Unfortunately, it’s not something he can tell her. She has to figure it out on her own.

They sit together for a while, barely talking. Eventually Gaby gets to her feet, straightening her skirt and wiping away the smudges of makeup beneath her eyes. “I have to go and do some work for Waverly,” she says to Napoleon. “Will you stay here?”

Napoleon nods, and Gaby sighs. “I’ll send down some files for you to look through,” she says. “Andrysiak might have something for you to pass the time with. You’ll get bored out of your mind if you just sit there until Illya wakes up.”

Napoleon just shrugs, and Gaby presses a kiss to his cheek. “See you later, Solo,” she murmurs, and Napoleon watches as she slips out the room.

He sits in silence for a few moments, just staring at Illya. There are words crowding his mind, spilling onto his tongue and lips but he can’t find any order to them, let alone open his mouth and let them fall out. He doesn’t even know if Illya can hear him. He doubts it, whatever the stories are about patients being able to hear their loved ones whilst unconscious. They’re comforts for the loved ones, and little more.

Still, Napoleon thinks he wouldn’t mind some comfort right now.

He drags the chair closer until he’s sat beside Illya’s bed. With some hesitation, he reaches over and takes Illya’s hand, careful of the needle in the back of it and the IV line snaking across the bed. Illya’s hand is warm, but limp in his. Napoleon looks down at it and remembers it scrabbling in the dust and the rubble, gripping hold of his leg as Napoleon knelt down beside him, holding onto Napoleon’s hand like it’s the last thing keeping him awake. Now, his fingers are limp. Napoleon curls Illya’s fingers around his hand, and holds on.

He clears his throat, and leans on the rail of the bed. “I’m not very good at this,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the tube that leaves Illya’s lips and falls to the side, all the way to the machine steadily hissing and breathing for him. His eyes sting, and he starts again.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he says. “If you can, I don’t know if you can understand what I’m saying.” He huffs a brief laugh, and switches into Russian. “Maybe this is better, I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

He rests his head on the rail briefly. “Gaby is holding it together better than I expected,” he murmurs. “But then she’s always surprised us. She grew up in East Berlin, after all.” He looks up, smoothing back Illya’s hair from his forehead. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, taking his hand away. “I don’t know what you want.”

He falls silent for a few moments. “You said you wished we had more time,” he says eventually. “And I can’t help but hope. We could have time, now. The doctors think you might be okay. We can have all the time you want. I promise I’ll be braver, this time.”

A sob slips past his lips, and he squeezes Illya’s hand. “You know, I haven’t loved someone in such a long time,” he says. “I forgot how much it hurts.” He pauses, and studies Illya’s face. “It’s so easy to admit it, when there’s nobody else to hear it,” he says. “But then I suppose it’s easy to love you.”

Now that he’s talking, he can’t seem to stop. Throughout it all, he doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand.

“I never wanted to do this,” he says softly. “I was an art thief, I didn’t want to be an agent. But ever since joining UNCLE, I’ve found the thing I didn’t know I was missing all those years in the CIA. I don’t know if you’ve found the same thing here, after the KGB, but for all of its flaws, UNCLE feels right. It feels like we’re finally doing something right, for once.”

“All those years I spent running around the world, stealing art, I don’t think I ever realised I was running from the war,” he murmurs. Even now, as he’s talking, he’s only just realising the truth. “But I saw what the US did to Japan. I saw what people could do to other people when they thought they were less than human, and I guess I got scared. I took some art and I ran. I suppose that it was fun.” He laughs. “It was more than that, it was brilliant, but I don’t think I ever stopped running.”

He huffs a laugh. “Ran straight to you, in the end,” he murmurs. “I suppose I’m thankful for that, even if I had to endure the CIA for you.” He studies Illya’s hand. “I think I’d do it again. I really do. If you do feel how I think, how I _hope_ , you feel, if you come through this and I can still stay with you in whatever way…” He trails off briefly. “Then yes, I’d do it again.”

He falls silent for a moment, the hissing of machines and beeping of the heart monitor the only noises in the room. Eventually, he sighs.

“Sometimes I wonder if spies live too long,” Napoleon murmurs. “It’s inevitable that to survive we have to be good at our job, and to be good often means ignoring your own morals to get the job done. The world is a thousand shades of cruelty and greed, and I’ve seen so many of these shades now. It’s enough to sometimes make you wonder why we play this stupid game, but then I don’t think we can ever leave, once we step in.”

He turns Illya’s hand over in his, wishing just briefly that Illya would hold it back. But the fingers remain limp, and Napoleon fights down a bitter wave of disappointment.

“I’ve seen so many spies turn sour,” he says. “So many lose faith in what they were doing, because what is the point when another terrorist or murderer or profiteer springs up in the place of the one you just took down?” He sighs. “Honestly, I thought that would be me, sooner or later. I know I’m jaded, and cynical, and think the worst of people because I’ve seen the worst, greed and power and cruelty and lust all spun together, over and over again. I’ve seen madmen and sane men and all those in between, and they just wanted to watch the world burn. And every time one went down, I was always left wondering just who would be coming next.”

The machine hisses in time to the rise and fall of Illya’s chest, and Napoleon rests his head in the crook of his arm, propped up on the railing of the bed. He looks up at Illya.

“I still wonder who’s next,” he murmurs. “It still keeps me up at night, sometimes, the knowledge that no matter what we do, there are always going to be people out there greedy or clever or wealthy or powerful enough to try and save themselves, and there are always going to be innocent people dead because of them. But…” He trails off, sighs, and then smiles softly as he watches Illya.

“It’s easier with you,” he says. “When you’re at my back with your stupid turtlenecks and flat caps, it makes it so much easier to pick myself up and meet the next person trying to burn the world down. You see the world like I do, and with all your rage and anger and deep, fierce loyalty, you don’t back down from it. You couldn’t.” He laughs softly. “And damn my competitive streak, but that means I can’t either.”

“We are a vicious certainty, the two of us,” Napoleon murmurs. “In one way or another, I knew that the first time I met you. We’ve been built to be polar opposites of each other, but I trust you, like I haven’t trusted anyone for a very long time, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop picking myself back up and following you into the next fight if you’re going to be there to watch my back.”

He lets his head fall to rest on his arm, tears drying on his cheeks, and doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all need a Gaby, sometimes, to help us pull ourselves together.
> 
> Writing that final scene, the trope-filled fest that is Napoleon talking to an unconscious Illya, was really interesting to write- it started off really hard to write, and then once I got into the swing of it I was writing things I'd had no intention of writing (see the whole bit about Napoleon running from the war, and his thoughts about spies living for too long). So yeah, that was really interesting to put down on (virtual) paper.
> 
> It looks like there's going to be about two more chapters of this story, as this story only really goes to Illya waking up coherently, but don't worry, there is a sequel and it's nearly twice the length of this story!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Illya's PoV is finally back! More trope-filled angst to come, including a ridiculous amount of abuse of the idea that things work best in threes (I heard this in English class that apparently if you want to repeat something to emphasise it, for some reason repeating it three times is the best way of writing it, and now I'm definitely abusing that for this story).
> 
> After this there will be one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts, and then I'll put up the first chapter of the sequel straight after the last chapter of this, which will be in a few days.

Napoleon is there every day, as soon as the doctor will let him into Medical, and stays late into the night until he gets threatened with a taser and has to leave. Gaby brings down files and makes him work, and he’s honestly grateful for the distraction. At times, the stillness of the room, the hissing of the ventilator and the steady beeping of the heart monitor, becomes too much to bear. The cases were a good distraction, for a couple of hours at a time.

Andrysiak flits in and out of the room throughout the day with more files for Napoleon to have a look at, and the occasional sandwich. Sometimes he stays for a while, sits down next to Napoleon and talks over a case with him. One long and tedious afternoon, when Napoleon feels the anxiety and worry clawing at his throat and can’t sit still, Andrysiak brings down a set of lock picks and some padlocks and makes Napoleon spend hours teaching him how to pick locks properly.

Illya is taken off the ventilator after two days, and Napoleon spends the half hour that they do the procedure in and checking him pacing up and down the corridor outside. As soon as the doctor lets him he steps back inside, and his breath stutters slightly when he sees Illya. He hadn’t realised how much of a difference the intubation tube had made until it is gone.

If Napoleon were less observant, it would almost look like Illya was just sleeping. Unfortunately, though Napoleon is lacking in many qualities, as Illya always like to reminds him, observance is not one of them. He’s all too aware of the stitches and bandages beneath the blankets, and there are still far too many tubes for his liking.

“You just have to wait,” the doctor tells Napoleon on one of her checks. “He’s doing well and he should wake up in another few days, but you are just going to have to be patient.”

“That’s all you ever seem capable of telling me,” Napoleon replies with a wry smile. The doctor sighs, and levels him with a look.

“I see this all the time,” she says, sitting down next to him. “I really do. I’ve had agents scream at me, had them cry on my shoulder, or just go silent and sit there until someone pulls them up to their feet. The things you go through with your partner, it forms some strong friendships. Friendships forged in fire, and all that.”

She studies him, and sighs softly. “You can’t be a good agent without being able to compartmentalise and not constantly think about the danger you and your partner face,” she says. “But it does you a disservice when it comes to something like this. All that worry and fear that you’ve pushed away over the missions that have gone right, they all flood forwards when the mission goes wrong.”

“Believe me, I know,” Napoleon says. “This wasn’t even a mission, which makes it so much worse. This was a damn assassination attempt.”

“Well, be comforted by the fact that whoever it is, they’re going to have to try a lot harder to kill Agent Kuryakin,” the doctor says wryly. “I’ve seen images of the explosion site and where Kuryakin was found. I think that would have killed most people.”

“Well, Peril is Russian,” Napoleon says with a smile. “All that vodka and those cold winters makes them remarkably resilient. He once jumped three stories from a burning building onto the ground, walked away with a fractured wrist and nothing more, and he didn’t even tell us about it until three days later.”

The doctor nods. “This isn’t a fractured wrist,” she reminds him. “This is going to take a lot longer to heal, and a hell of a lot of physical therapy.”

“I know,” Napoleon simply says. “I’m well aware this is going to take a while. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t think that’s ever been my concern,” the doctor says wryly. “You might hold the record out of all the worried partners for how long you’ve been sat in this room.”

Napoleon finds himself smirking slightly. “Do I get a reward?” he asks.

“You get your partner back,” the doctor replies, looking unimpressed. “And regular threats from us to get out of here and get some sleep. I think that’s enough for you.” She gets up and gives him a look. “Be patient, get a grip and stop flirting with my nurses so they let you stay here when you aren’t meant to.”

Napoleon smiles sheepishly, because he had been doing that, but only because he has been charming people to get what he wants for so long now, it barely takes him a second thought. The doctor rolls her eyes, and leaves the room.

Napoleon sighs, and looks at Illya. “Wake up soon, please,” he murmurs. “Just…wake up soon. You’ve slept for long enough.”

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon is dozing in the chair in Illya’s room, slumped uncomfortably against the wall, when there’s a shrill beeping echoing through the room. He wakes as the door is flung open and several nurses rush in, followed by the doctor.

“What is it?” he demands as he leaps to his feet, trying to step towards the bed. One of the nurses pushes him away, stepping in front and blocking his view to Illya. Napoleon swallows the panic clawing at his throat.

“Calm down, Agent Solo,” the doctor says as she studies the readings from the heart monitor. “He’s fine. The sedatives are starting to wear off, and he’s in pain and becoming agitated. He’ll fall back asleep in a few moments, without ever really being awake.”

Soon enough, the beeping calms back down as Illya’s heart rate settles, and the nurses step back. Napoleon arches a brow at the doctor. “This will happen a few times,” she says. “As he begins to shake off the sedatives and wake up. He’s a spy. He’s going to panic when he wakes up like this.”

“Fine,” Napoleon says. “In that case, I’m not leaving this room. I’m the best person to get him to calm down and you know it.” The doctor gives him a long-suffering look, but nods. Napoleon goes back to his chair at the side of the room, dragging it a little closer and sitting down. A little while later and Gaby arrives, squeezing his hand in comfort as she sits next to him.

Illya nearly wakes up another three times, accompanied each time by the beeping of the monitor and nurses crowding around the bed, and each time Napoleon hopes that this time he’ll really wake up, this time he’ll open his eyes and look at Napoleon. But each time Illya slips back into sleep before he wakes, pulled back under before he can open his eyes, and Napoleon doesn’t let the curses on his tongue slip through his lips.

The fifth time the heart monitor starts to beep Napoleon looks up but doesn’t move, expecting Illya to fall back asleep soon enough. But the beeping continues and starts to become higher pitched, and the nurses don’t step back.

“Agent Kuryakin,” one of them says, leaning over the bed. “Kuryakin, calm yourself down. Stop fighting the drugs. You’re in UNCLE headquarters, you’re safe here. You’ve been badly hurt-” She cuts herself off and reaches out, pressing down Illya’s arm as he struggles. “Agent Kuryakin!” she says sharply. “Calm yourself down.”

Napoleon gets up and shoulders her aside as he comes to the side of the bed. “Get off him,” he snaps. “He’s disorientated and in pain, if you start holding him down he’s going to think he’s in the damn enemy’s hands.” He leans over the bed and gently grasps Illya’s shoulder. He’s struggling against the medication, his eyes roaming wildly around the room.

“Illya,” Napoleon says softly. “Illya. Peril, come on, look at me.” He squeezes Illya’s shoulder and then gently grabs his chin, tilting Illya’s head towards him. “Peril,” he says softly, and he can’t help the smile that curls his lips as Illya’s gaze focuses on him.

“You’re in UNCLE headquarters,” Napoleon says, switching into Russian. “You were in an explosion. You’re hurt, but you’re going to get better, okay? You’re going to get better.”

Illya blinks, and with apparent effort he lifts his hand and reaches for Napoleon. The amount of drugs he’s on, he misses completely, and Napoleon’s laugh almost turns into a sob as Illya manages to catch his sleeve and clings onto it with a few fingers. Napoleon, regardless of all the people in the room, gently takes Illya’s hand.

Illya blinks again. “…Leon,” he murmurs. “Napoleon. Cowboy.”

“That’s me,” Napoleon says, suddenly blinking through tears. “You’re in UNCLE headquarters, you’ve been hurt but you’re going to get better. I’ll stay right here, okay? I’ll be right here.”

“Leon,” Illya murmurs again, and he grips Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon can see him fighting to stay awake, and with his free hand he reaches out and gently pushes Illya’s hair back from his forehead.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says softly. “It’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up again.” He keeps his hand resting on Illya’s cheek, the other holding tight to Illya’s hand. There’s the barest hint of a smile curling Illya’s lips, and then his eyes flicker shut. His grip on Napoleon’s hand becomes lax, and Napoleon fights down the wave of panic that comes with it.

“I’m staying here,” he says to the doctor, not even looking up from Illya. “Don’t even try to get me to leave. I’m staying here.”

0-o-0-o-0

He doesn’t remember where he is.

He knows that he isn’t somewhere he instinctively knows as safe, his decades of training mean he knows he must be alert, but even struggling to wakefulness seems impossible and he can’t work out why. He starts to panic slightly, and as he sucks in a breath there’s a sharp pain in his chest.

He’s injured, then. He’s injured and incapacitated, and he doesn’t know where he is. Against his will his traitorous body draws in another quick breath, and he can feel his heart begin to quicken. There’s a high pitched whining noise from somewhere, and he feels cold. He manages to open his eyes a sliver only to squeeze them shut again against the bright white light. _Snow,_ he thinks, followed by: _what when where how_ and a thousand other questions he asks as decades of training slowly begin to surface. But instinct overrides training, and over the thousands of questions one screams out at him, because if he himself is injured, then _he_ might be hurt as well.

_Napoleon,_ he thinks desperately. _Napoleon. Napoleon._

He can hear a voice just on the edge of his hearing, but it’s a murmur of words that he can’t separate out. He tries, but he thinks it’s a different language, and he can only make out a few words.

He hears his name, hears someone repeating it over and over, and with a huge amount of effort he opens his eyes.

“Gaby,” he murmurs, looking up at her. She sniffs, and takes his hand.

“You would wake up properly when Napoleon is out of the room,” she says, and now Illya is more awake, he can translate most of what she’s saying. He frowns.

“Napoleon,” he murmurs. “Where…where is he?” To his surprise, Gaby just looks fond at the question, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“He’s okay,” she says. “I’ll go get him.” She glances over her shoulder to an agent that Illya hadn’t noticed, lounging in the corner. She says something to him, but Illya is more worried that he hadn’t noticed the other agent, and misses what she says. Gaby smiles softly at him, and then slips out the door.

The other agent gets to his feet and walks over, and Illya feels betrayed by the heart monitor when his heartbeat jumps. The other agent stops a few feet from the bed, and holds up his hands. There’s a wry smile on his face.

“I’m an UNCLE agent,” he says, and Illya realises he’s speaking Russian. “My name is Andrysiak. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I know that,” Illya gets out through gritted teeth. Andrysiak smiles wryly, and is about to say something when the door opens.

For all he knows, Andrysiak could have said something, but Illya pays no attention to him as soon as he sees Napoleon standing in the doorway. He looks smaller than usual, and oddly vulnerable, and for a few moments he doesn’t move. Illya tries to reach out a hand for him, and he must make some type of noise because Napoleon’s face briefly crumples, and in the next moment he is at the side of the bed, and taking Illya’s outstretched hand.

“You’re okay?” Illya murmurs, staring at Napoleon like he can’t get enough of looking at him. Napoleon looks tired, his hair soft and curling without the usual pomade. Illya wants to run his fingers through it and see if it is as soft as it looks.

There’s an amused snort from Gaby, and that other agent is trying to hide a smile. “We’ll give you the room,” the agent says, and he all but drags Gaby out, who is trying to hide her laughter too much to protest. Illya realises he must be on a lot of drugs, and he’s not quite sure of what he’s saying and what is staying in his own head.

Napoleon smiles again. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you say anything too incriminating,” he says.

“You’re okay?” Illya just repeats. He doesn’t care if he’s hurt, but Napoleon has to be okay.

“I’m fine,” Napoleon says, and his smile has suddenly disappeared. “You’re the one who’s been hurt.”

Illya frowns. Even through the haze of what must be very good drugs, he can still tell when Napoleon is upset. “You’re angry,” he says. “What did I do?”

“You?” Napoleon asks. “Christ, you nearly died, Illya.”

“Oh,” Illya says, and he thinks Napoleon has every right to be angry with him for that. “Sorry.”

Napoleon laughs bitterly, and halfway through he cuts himself off before it can turn into a sob. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he gets out. “You- it was the fucking CIA that did this. I’m not angry with you. I’m fucking furious with Sanders and the fucking CIA and this damn country.”

“Oh,” Illya says again. He tries to remember what mission they had been on, what they were doing, but all he can remember is the cold, the taste of ash on his lips and staring up at Napoleon’s face and thinking: _forever_. He licks his lips, his throat dry and hoarse, and Napoleon grabs a cup from the side to feed him chips of ice.

“What happened?” he murmurs once the ice has melted. “What- the mission? Is it done?”

Napoleon, if anything, just looks angrier. “There was no mission,” he spits out. “Sanders decided you were too much of a…nuisance, I suppose. He faked a coded message to get you to what you thought was a KGB safehouse, and then… then he blew it up with you inside it.”

Illya frowns. “Napoleon,” he murmurs. “Cowboy. Not your fault.”

Napoleon huffs a bitter laugh. “We can argue about this later,” he says, “when you’re better. You were pretty badly hurt, Illya.” His voice cracks and he briefly closes his eyes. “I thought you were going to die in front of me on that damn street.”

“Sorry,” Illya says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say or what to do to fix this look on Napoleon’s face, and Napoleon chokes on a breath.

“It’s not your damn fault,” he says, his voice cracking. “It’s not- none of this is your fault. You’re here, you’re going to be okay, and that’s enough for me.”

Illya tries to glance down at his body. There’s pain there, a constant deep ache that even drugs can’t get rid of, but for the moment it’s distant and detached. He knows it’s only a matter of time before it hits him properly, but for now he can cope.

“There was some internal bleeding,” Napoleon says, his voice quiet. “Apparently livers stop bleeding on their own, they didn’t even need to stitch up the tears or anything, but there was other bleeding they had to control. Your leg is broken, and you have quite a few broken ribs One of them made your lung collapse, but they fixed that. You had a tube in your chest for a few days.” Illya tries to sit up and look at his chest, as if he could see the damage through the blankets covering him, but pain explodes through his chest and he collapses back down. There’s a keening noise, and he realises it’s him.

Napoleon grabs his hand and squeezes it. “Just keep breathing,” he says. “Keep breathing. You’re going to be okay.”

Illya scrabbles for some semblance of control and finds it eventually through sheer stubbornness. Napoleon sits back, moving to take his hand away, but Illya keeps hold of it.

“Don’t leave,” he finds himself murmuring, and he hates himself for saying it because of the way Napoleon’s expression shatters. He feels unbearably selfish, because even causing Napoleon so much pain, he doesn’t want to ever let go of him.

Napoleon stares at him for a long moment. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says eventually.

Illya doesn’t know if it’s the drugs he’s on or what Napoleon just said that makes his chest feel full, but he smiles helplessly, and Napoleon squeezes his hand. “I should let Gaby back in here,” he says after a few moments. “Stay here.”

“I can’t go anywhere, Cowboy,” Illya says as Napoleon gets up and goes to the door. “Too much drugs for that.” Napoleon gives him an exasperated yet fond look over his shoulder as he opens the door, and Illya can’t help but grin.

Gaby appears, and grasps Illya’s hand as she sits down beside the bed. “Chop shop girl,” Illya murmurs. “Don’t cry.”

Gaby’s smile wobbles, and he can see her pulling herself together. “I wouldn’t have to cry if some _arschloch_ hadn’t gotten himself blown up,” she snaps at him. “You had us worried there, Illya. Don’t do it again.”

Illya blinks, and tries to translate what she just said in his head. The drugs are making everything hazy, and after a few moments Napoleon huffs a laugh, and repeats everything she said in Russian. “Oh,” Illya says. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your damn fault, Peril,” Napoleon says over Gaby’s head, and Gaby nods, looking fierce. Illya doesn’t think he should say anything to disagree with Gaby, so he says nothing.

Gaby presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll go let Waverly know you’ve woken up,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She slips out of the room with a last fond smile over her shoulder. Napoleon watches her leave, hands in his pockets.

“How long?” Illya asks. He can already feel himself struggling to stay awake, but he doesn’t want to shut his eyes. A part of him is terrified that Napoleon won’t be there when he wakes up again.

“How long were you out?” Napoleon clarifies. “About six days.” He sits back down in the chair next to the bed. “You’ve been waking up a little bit for the past day, but I don’t think you remember any of that.”

Illya shakes his head slightly. “What do the doctors say?” he asks. “Will I recover fully?”

Napoleon doesn’t meet Illya’s gaze. “Let’s just get you well enough to get you out of Medical,” he says, smoothing down Illya’s blanket. “We can tackle the rest of it then.”

Illya is a spy. He knows what it looks like when someone is lying. More than that, he knows Napoleon, and the tightness around his eyes means that he’s avoiding the whole truth. “Cowboy,” he says patiently, waiting for Napoleon’s gaze to meet his. “What did the doctors say?”

“They don’t know,” Napoleon says eventually. “You might recover fully, with only some lingering scars, or you might not. Either way, there’s going to be a lot of physical therapy to get anywhere.”

Illya just nods. He doesn’t like lying to himself. It just makes the inevitable truth harder to stomach, so he nods and pushes away the thought for him to panic over later, when he won’t scare Napoleon.

“Waverly said you’ll always have a place here, though,” Napoleon adds. “You’re not going that easily.”

“I never would,” Illya replies, and it’s the truth. Not without Napoleon, at least.

He can feel his eyelids growing heavy and struggles against it with little success. “You can go back to sleep,” Napoleon says, and Illya wonders if he’s imagining the hand brushing his cheek, the fondness and longing intermingling in Napoleon’s voice. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, I promise.”

Illya wants to say: _we are spies._

He wants to say: _we should know better than to promise._

He wants to say: _I believe you._

He falls asleep before he can say any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Many. Tropes.
> 
> Honestly, I loved writing these scenes, it was really rewarding to finally have Illya wake up and actually talk to Napoleon.
> 
> After the sequel I do have plans for more stories in this fandom. Would anyone be interested in a Tour de France AU- the Tour de France is a massive bike (not motorbike, bicycle) race across France that takes place over about three weeks, with cyclists travelling anywhere up to 150 miles per day. It's quite big in Europe, but idk whether Americans know much about it. Anyway, Napoleon and Illya are rival racers who hate each other, so it starts off with loads of passive-aggressive bitching about each other to the press and arguments that become more and more loaded with sexual tension, and then it goes from there.... Lots of angst potential as well, as the Tour can get quite dangerous- they're travelling over 60mph with only a bike helmet to protect themselves, and can go down some very steep descents when in the mountains.  
> Anyway, let me know if you'd like something like that!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter- I'll be putting up the first chapter of the sequel pretty much as soon as this is published.  
> A huge thank you to everyone who has read this, left kudos and commented- you really do make my day. Thank you.

For a moment Napoleon is utterly envious of how, even at three in the morning, Waverly looks like he’s just come from afternoon tea. Napoleon knows that his normal suave front has crumbled somewhat over the past few days and seeing Waverly standing in the doorway, looking impeccably British, just digs the barb in a little deeper.

He clears his throat, and Waverly looks away from where Illya is sleeping in the hospital bed. “Can I help you, Sir?” Napoleon asks.

“You know, I can’t find it in myself to be surprised to see you down here, even in the early hours of the morning,” Waverly says, levelling Napoleon with a look. “Have you gone home at all in the past few days?”

“I find it hard to take that rebuke from you when you are also still here in the early hours of the morning,” Napoleon says. “Sir.”

“Oh well, I suppose that’s fair enough,” Waverly says dryly. “But I am the boss, Solo. I do have work that must be done. I thought I’d come down and see how Kuryakin is doing before I head out.”

“He’s a little better,” Napoleon says, gaze falling on Illya, his face smoothed out in sleep. It’s so unlike how Napoleon is used to seeing Illya, who is normally all frowns and dry quips at his expense. He’s not sure if he’s unnerved by it or just curious.

“The doctors say he’ll pull through, at least,” he adds when Waverly says nothing. “They think it might be another week before he can go home, though knowing Peril he’ll annoy them to let him leave early.” He glances up at Waverly. “With your permission, Sir, I’d like to take another week of leave once he goes home. Illya’s going to be fairly invalided with his ribs and leg, and he’s more likely to let me help than anyone actually qualified to do anything.”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” Waverly says. “You can have someone drop off some less classified work at your apartment daily. Oh, and it’s probably best to move some of Kuryakin’s belongings into your apartment before he gets discharged from here. Make things easier and more settled when he gets out, and all that.”

Napoleon stares at him. “What?”

Waverly arches a brow. “I’d rather assumed that it would be easier for the both of you if Kuryakin moved into your apartment during his convalescence,” he says. “Only temporarily, of course.”

Napoleon blinks. “Right,” he says slowly. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll get on that.”

Waverly nods, and Napoleon curses the man’s opaque British exterior that means he has no idea whether Waverly is being serious or not. “Is there any progress in the investigation?” Napoleon asks. “Have you managed to get in contact with Sanders?”

“Yes and yes,” Waverly says. “Sanders of course denies the whole thing, but we have enough to make his life a little difficult for a while.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “A little difficult?” he repeats. “He tried to kill one of your agents! That must be breaking some sort of international law. Hell, I’ll settle for him getting arrested for damn property damage if that’s what it takes, but there must be consequences.”

“You know all about breaking the law, Solo,” Waverly says, giving Napoleon a look over the rims of his glasses. “So you know that there are an infinite amount of loopholes available to someone who knows where to look. Sanders, unfortunately, knows where to look. I’ll do my best, but the unfortunate luck of the matter means that it is doubtful we can prosecute in any way. Not in public, at least.”

Napoleon stares at him. “You’re serious,” he says eventually, incredulous. “I thought you said you cared!” Illya twitches slightly in his sleep as Napoleon’s voice grows louder, and Napoleon winces.

“I thought you were going to prove that we weren’t the cannon fodder we were in the CIA and KGB?” he hisses, lowering his voice. “Illya could have died here, and Sanders is responsible.” The CIA, the administration, the whole fucking country and all of the Soviet ones were all responsible in some way, in Napoleon’s view, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

“And you are a spy, Agent Solo,” Waverly says, his voice sharp. “So you understand that sometimes the legal system of a country cannot be applied to us in the same way as civilians.”

“That doesn’t mean you can blow up a building on someone and walk away from it,” Napoleon says, his voice cold. He knows that spies are somewhat exempt from the law when it comes to serving a purpose greater than one country, he’s benefited from that before, but this is different. “That should never mean that any of us are outside of, if not the law, then at least _consequences,_ when someone tries to kill one of our fucking own.”

Waverly levels Napoleon with a stern look, but Napoleon can’t find it within himself to care. “You are not cannon fodder, as you so like to put it,” he says. “And I will do my best to see through the consequences of Sanders’ actions, but there is only so far I am able to go from my position.”

Napoleon frowns slightly, and wonders if Waverly is being deliberately opaque and giving him leave to investigate on his own, or if he’s reading into his words too much. He opens his mouth, but Waverly cuts him off.

“Leave it,” he says. “ _Agent_ Solo.”

Napoleon considers, for a very brief moment, doing exactly the opposite, but common sense somehow prevails and he lets it go for now. “I do have a request, Sir,” he says eventually, watching Illya sleep.

“Yes?” Waverly asks, sounding rather long-suffering.

“I’d like you to remove me from the CIA.”

That manages to make Waverly pause. “That is a rather difficult task, Solo,” he says slowly. “And there is no guarantee I can make it happen.”

“I’ve served eleven out of my fifteen years,” Napoleon says quietly. “Ten of them under the thumb of the CIA.” Just one year under UNCLE was enough to convince him he could never go back to them. If they tried to take him back, Napoleon has known for a while now that he’d run instead. If he did, he would take Illya with him.

“I want to be a full UNCLE agent,” he says. “Without the noose of the CIA constantly around my neck. I can serve out the rest of my prison sentence with you, if that makes the idiots at Langley happy, but I won’t work under the CIA anymore.” He wouldn’t spend one more moment than he had to under the name of the people who tried to kill Illya, who could take him away from UNCLE in a moment and bury him in an unmarked grave. He would rather run, or if all else fails die on his own terms, instead for an agency, and a country, he’s not sure he believes in anymore.

Waverly studies him. “What has suddenly made you decide this?” he asks, and Napoleon doesn’t miss how his gaze skips to Illya.

“Changing times, Sir,” Napoleon says, purposefully not looking over at Illya as he says it. “And changing priorities. Working for UNCLE has shown me quite how... shortsighted, shall we say, the CIA can be. I don’t want to go back there. And I don’t want to risk it. There are a fair few agents there who would like to shoot me on sight for working with a Russian.”

Waverly nods. “I’m sure you understand how difficult this would be to accomplish,” he says. “You are one of the CIA’s best, after all.” Napoleon goes to object, but Waverly holds up one hand. “Not that I don’t want you to be a full UNCLE agent,” he adds. “And I have gone through this procedure many times, now. But given how things are currently standing with the CIA, they will be difficult.”

“I want out,” Napoleon just says. “I want to be done with the CIA. And I want the same offer to be given to Kuryakin. You know just as well as I do that the KGB will kill him if they get him back, one way or another. He’ll take it, if you offer.”

Waverly thinks for a moment. “There is a very good chance that if I leverage for you and Kuryakin to become full UNCLE agents, then I will have to lessen the pressure on Sanders and this investigation, possibly to the extent that there are little consequences for him. I don’t want you coming for my head if that happens.”

“Illya won’t care much about Sanders,” Napoleon says immediately, and he knows that he could let that go if it ended up with him, and more importantly Illya, being protected as UNCLE agents. “If we are both full UNCLE agents, I can live with Sanders still there in the CIA.”

“Burn the bridges, if you have to,” Napoleon says when Waverly pauses. “Burn them all, I don’t care. I won’t work under the people who did this to Illya.”

Waverly stares at him for a long moment. “Your loyalty to your partner is admirable,” he says eventually. “But dangerous. Be careful, Solo.” Napoleon just raises his chin, baring his throat, and Waverly sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. Tell Kuryakin…just let him know I’m doing what I can.”

“Will do, Sir,” Napoleon says, and he watches as Waverly nods and leaves the room. For a moment there is a stillness in the air, broken only by the quiet beeping of the heart monitor, now somebody finally turned the volume down a little last night.

Napoleon sighs softly and leans on the edge of Illya’s bed, shutting his eyes for a few moments. When he opens them again, Illya is staring fondly at him, a slight smirk curling his lips.

Napoleon groans. “How long have you been awake?” he asks, switching automatically into Russian.

Illya shrugs, and then winces at the flare of pain through his chest. “Enough to hear Waverly,” he murmurs. “I don’t care about Sanders.”

Napoleon hums in agreement. “I thought you wouldn’t,” he says. “But I do. I can’t…I can’t be attached to the CIA anymore. I won’t do it. Some part of me trusted them, or at least trusted the country they supposedly serve. Now I don’t think I can stand knowing that any day, they could yank the leash and pull me back to them without a second thought. Not after what they’ve done to you.”

Illya smiles slightly, and Napoleon can feel his heart breaking and healing at the same time. He tries not to laugh at his own metaphors. He really is too elaborate.

“Fuck Sanders,” Illya murmurs, and he grins, the world hazy on drugs, at Napoleon’s slightly surprised face. “I mean it. Fuck him, and fuck the CIA. If Waverly gets his way, we will have UNCLE.”

“If he doesn’t…” Napoleon says slowly, and Illya, through the haze of very good pain medication, studies his face. He sees the hesitation there, and resists the temptation to reach for Napoleon’s hand.

“If he doesn’t?” he asks, and he thinks he might be okay as long as he can still see Napoleon roll his eyes like he’s just done, that familiar exasperated look tinged with fondness. He knows what Napoleon is going to say before he says it, and beats it to him. “You’ll run, won’t you?” he asks.

Napoleon nods. “Maybe,” he admits. “I’ve thought about it plenty of times over the years, but when at the CIA, well,” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I wanted to prove the bastards wrong. And now I’m here, I don’t know if I would run unless…” He trails off, and Illya doesn’t think he’s ever seen Napoleon this vulnerable. He waits Napoleon out, ignoring the pain in his chest, and thinks: _forever_.

“I don’t think I would run unless I could take you with me,” Napoleon murmurs eventually, and then winces as if he’d gone too far, said too much. He takes a few moments to look up and meet Illya’s gaze, and Illya can’t help but smile.

There are a thousand words he wants to say, the ones that rise up from his chest and threaten to spill over his lips, begging him to say: _I would go, if you asked._ Instead, he thinks back to the little he’d heard of the conversation between Waverly and Napoleon. “You told Waverly you would give up Sanders for us to stay in UNCLE,” he says. “You would do that? Out of loyalty to me?”

Napoleon’s eyes are bright as he stares at Illya. “It isn’t out of loyalty,” he says.

Illya wants to say: _it isn’t for me either._

He wants to say: _what I hope we might have is far more dangerous._

He wants to say: _I know._

There’s nothing stopping him. He takes Napoleon’s hand, and he doesn’t let go.

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel continues on almost directly from the end of this story, and charts Illya's recovery and the muddle of emotions between the two of them. Prepare for angst, fluff and another whole heap of tropes.
> 
> A serious thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented- you are wonderful people and I love you all. I have plenty more ideas for this fandom (starting planning a coffee shop AU in my head yesterday, which I know isn't exactly a gap in the market or anything, but screw it I want fluff).
> 
> Thank you all again, you're all brilliant.


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